shivered on the side of I-75 in the middle of nowhere
awaiting anything or anyone to listen
to our suffering, to warm our souls.

For, we had taken the road less travelled, and grew ourselves
an outside tough, we listened only to ancient words and hummed
and never gave a sip of life that had not been written down by an ancient
genius,
nor ever looked up to see besides the imagining
we lived.
And met you, I did, while reading, EE Cummings
you  had Emerson open.

Black queen on the red king,
the seven on the black
eight, eight goes on the nine, bring
the nine on over, place
jack on the queen. There is space
now for that black king who,
six or so cards back,
was buried in the pack.
Five on six, where's seven?
Under the ten. The ace
must be under the two.
Four, nine on ten, three, through.
It's after eleven.

laying in my bed, trying to write this poem
Being in a small town, wishing somewhere bigger and brighter was my home.
A place where people don't sleep.
Where the night owls thrive.
A place where everything is always alive.
I look outside my window and see nothing but darkness and an empty street.
Nothing but one street lamp, how does everyone feel complete?
Do people ever get lonely and want something more?
Doesn't anyone always want an open door?
I want to look out my window, and see action.
Taxi's and people and human interaction.
Not some empty street that's a depressing distraction.
I want something more, bright lights galore, a place where sleep doesn't have to be an option anymore.

Lake waters rose heavily, forming
the wall with a line of sinking clouds
about to burst forth.

And for many violent
seconds, hail hit,
giving off a terrible sound,
like elephants
toppling to the ground.

Just as abruptly as it
had begun, so it ended.
Sun met rain
and birthed an eye-grabbing double
rainbow that hung dazzling
and quiet;
it, too, for mere seconds...

I'm in love with
the idea of you
when you're near
I feel empty
it's better as
a daydream
in my head
you love the idea
of me