Collected punk neon girl
Pixie goth artsy boy
I could read you both anytime
I'm a stickler for a problem
So enough of the courage
Enough of the bravado
I love things I cannot fix
So drugs, mental plague and festering narcissism are the things I like
A secret to only myself
My friend brings on lovers
Who are scared to touch
They look on with pearly eyes
And mouth out words.
With only silent prayer they have --
No action.
She lies there ashamed.
Too pure too touch
Too perfect to be near
She's a gyroscopic girl - a dancing queen of flowers
Too thunderous to tame
Must be nice, I say.
Hell, she replies.
It makes her grow black thorns
Which makes me show her my black moths
In my own brain
Another friend is in a mix
She cannot feel her teeth
As she digs on into cruel flesh
Endlessly --
Prospering off of the mania.
Madness in us all
Sparks only to blame.

if this life is not permanent
if nothing in this life is
real or worth much
why would i waste my time
chasing objects and mile markers
when in our lives
all that matter is how we feel
our emotion and our sensitivities
to each other and to ourselves
our own inner voices, (or are they really inside?)
screaming and singing to be heard.
ripping open our own hearts
and eyes to see what is really
under the masks of our own making.
why chase those masks that we wear
why not grip the feelings of love
and faithful compassion from the universe
or from our own inner gods and goddesses
why not reach out and grasp that
golden thread that we so desperately
search the world for
it's right there in front of our gaping
mouths.
waiting to be touched and embodied.
this is why we should chase our heart
for in this world
it is the only thing with sheer permanence.

...words,  at times,      f
                                       a                    
                                   l
                               l

                          in   a    

                        c
                      r
                        o
                             o
                                  k
                                e
                            d
                                  row...


when gathering thoughts
when establishing a message
when trying to put words
in their right places
...they sometimes end up
............in   w e i r d    spaces

..................r h y t h m    
is messed...it's neither a poem nor a hymn
.....falling backward
..........it sounds   a
                                    w
                                k
                                     w a r d

......everything else doesn't     j i b e ...
...........time is not ripe....
the poem's moment...is yet to arrive...


        Sally

Copyright November  5, 2017              
rrab