Will you weave me a basket of willow she asked
Or one made with Hazel so strong, firm and fast
Would you make it with love and with skill and with care
Would you weave a strong basket for your lady fair

I will weave you a basket of willow she smiled
And another of hazel from great forests wild
I will weave them with love and I'll weave them with care
As I weave I will dream I weave gold in your hair

Will you help me to fill them she asked smiling back
And then carry them for me on the homeward track
Yes I'll fill them with fruit and I'll fill them with love
From the field and the garden and trees up above

I will carry your baskets for all I am worth
I would carry you through to the ends of the earth
I'll weave for us alone with my heart and my soul
When we're woven together then we will be whole

Gears and gears alone can bring the motion that is everyday
Time shoos us forward as we fumble and trip into our subordinate routines
We blunder through space like old records
And discover ourselves in a smaller world every dawn

Disassembled by disapproval we submit to work
And our neighbors build their humble steads alongside us
Are days here for us or for others?
A question for the asking before we shuffle to work

It’s raining outside
but in this new place
I can’t hear it hit my window
or the rumble of the thunder
which I delight in hearing
as it tries to frighten me
but does so feebly
like a baby tiger
learning to growl

So I stare through glass
but at an angle
because I can’t see the raindrops
except by the orange lamplight
which reflects all the water
that swims trapped inside the globe
of the burning glow
and seems to disappear
once it has passed

And My God, these thoughts
tighten my stomach
and their hands scratch through my forehead
and constrict all of my breathing
so I try to erase them
as they try to frighten me
but do so feebly
that I can forget them
by trying to feel the storm.

The shruckling brook twists around
the underbrush, ferns, and green little brots
making it's clean path through
the wild turns of the otherwise
confriggalus jungle.
It chuckles and burbles and babbles,
And trammles and jackles and plurks,
on its very merry way
plarfling to itself,
smelling the strungent perfume
of the zurplagot flowers,
tasting the salty stebbles
tickling its feet.

Favourite nerve-wracking days
meet carefully sweet irony

Journeying continues,
insinuating ignored answers

Porcelain begs,
hoping painful exists

Difficult burning overcame
caring tender memories

Doctor specifically outlines:
indefinite,
obscure,
bland reality
Endlessly changing predictions
force desperate safe haven
nothing helps

Miss doll lovely,
perfect,
shaken,
abandoned,
sick,
dead

Wishing stops,
scarring trust,
tearing irrelevant curiosity,
keeping nightmares closer
Month,
month,
month,
month
Repetitively
wrecked voice
struggling situations

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
secure,
particular,
neutral,
enveloped,
unglued

Spontane­ity analyzes fortifications
forcing unprotected souls
overtaken faces
wearing hurtful aspect
Month,
month,
month,
month

Intravenous consequences
silver surgeon
irrelevant grace upon
her heavy neckline
medicated extremities

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
designed unconscious,
forced,
weary,
sober,
sedated

Friends opinions
especial curiosity
suppressed predictions believed
feet solely on Reason Street
accompanied by Pushing Negativity
nothing’s changing
Second,
Minute,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month

O­h,
Miss doll lovely,
evident,
profound,
bare,
suffering,
dying

Loneliness laughs
limits reached
heartbreaks stated
emotional crashing
déjà vu stays,
a wishful memory
deceit captivates each:
Second,
Minute,
Hour,
Day,
Week,
Month,
month,
month,
month­

A curve catatonic
victim tattered at gates of steel
guarded
grasping winter
greatest attempts trying to understand

Nurse,
feet, ankles, organized steps
communications
understandings
Fractured faces cry
broken tears
honest weak calling
home hurts
useless moonlight lips
Month,
month,
month,
month,
Year,
year,
year,
year

Oh,
Miss doll lovely,
not waking,
haunting,
insane,
blackened,
cold

Awake.
That feeling can mean many different things.
Sober.
Sick.
Irrelevant.



Alone.
Empty.
The feelings sometimes accompanied with awake.
An emotionally painful sort of awake, where waking up at all is torture.
The sort where you go about your business, and continue playing underdog to the system.
Where you fabricate the surface of your existence to please the wants and needs of others.
The outside.
The part of you that everyone interprets.
The part that you fight so hard for, but never really matters in the end.
The human distinction.

i tried to make this poem              look like a heart
  but i ran out of words, it        really doesn't, it kind of looks
   like someone took a good    lookin heart and kind of squashed
    it which is too bad because i really would've loved it if it
     looked like a heart, but i suppose that a squashed heart    
       isn't too bad, even if it's kind of funny looking, i think.

As they put me under
I can only wonder
What is wrong with me?
Is it person I see as me?
Is it my extra weight?
Is it how people hate
Just because I dont fit?
Maybe its that I refuse to quit.
No, nothing is wrong with me.
Me is all I can ever be.
I might not be hot.
I'm happy with what I've got.
My beauty is on the inside.
Myself I can no longer hide.
I don't need to be under the knife
Because unlike you I'm happy with my life.
To you this must seem so strange
but to me I see no reason to change.