I don't finish
Drawings
I'm too afraid
To mess up
The things I love

The words circle me
not like vultures
they don't care
what happens to me
it's possible i'm a vulture
waiting for the words
to fall upon the page
certainly no hunter
seeking them out
at the library
or wherever they flock
for the best really
all the best word hunters
are crazy or dead
which is awful.

I'm so tired of screaming at myself.
I'm so tired of screaming at everyone else.
I'm so tired of pulling bottles from the shelf.
I'm just tired.

tides change, a perceivable measure from my skewed vision anyways. soft shudders, wings from birds of flight- there is something in the air tonight. the earth trembles beneath me, the sky rises above- something in the moon my dear entrances me in love.
             there is no wind upon my legs, or my arms, across my face. there is no breeze to catch my hair, no cold sparks or humid drench in the air. So, I start on my summer-side way, the paths we used to take- while we were too young to understand the beauty of just being able to walk for a day. in the fields we'd run, the trees we'd climb, in the grass where we spun, and we spun;
                            until mum called us home for supper-time.
            my love? when did we decide to grow up?
for now, we are left enjoying the moments in the past, we were too busy looking into the future, to enjoy what we had.


                                                                   *but I suppose, we always are..

I fear the night
not for the nightmares
that lurk in the dark
but simply because
it's too close to tomorrow.

The sun calls to me in a sultry voice.
The horizon inviting me sweetly to explore it's territory.
There's gypsy blood boiling inside my veins
And I hear a message on the wind
That cannot go unanswered.

It's the kind of puking that you don't recover from, when you're hunched over the trash can and you have enough time to side glance and admire your spine in the mirror you forgot to clean. * if I go over the lines one more time they'll blow out* I tattooed your abuse inside the medicine cabinet, where I go to meet Jesus every Tuesday night. When Friday seems to far away, and your fist so close. It's not just a memory this is a legacy. Trash can duets.