We're just tic tacs
Stuck toppled over each other

In a box
In a pocket
In a purse
Or a socket

Just tic tacs waiting
We'll be bought and eaten

Used selfishly
Eaten in ones
In pairs
In threes
In handfulls

As a snack
To be sold
Freshen breath
Eaten when bored

Just tic tacs in a box
Juggled on the road
By people bigger than us
Who can use and abuse

Dispensable tic tacs
One after the other

All the same

Opening the book of morning to the first blue page , chapter
one tells of Warblers and Finches , misty hillsides and scenic vistas ..
Thumbing through blessings , every paragraph a loving , written testament to the wonders of today ...

I am the sky,
The girl who keeps her head in the clouds.
     I am the land of the unknown,
The girl who dreams of being anywhere but reality.
     I am the ocean,
With feelings going up and down just like the waves.
     I am the flowers in spring,
The girl who is sweet and fun to be around.
     I am the distant fear inside,
The girl afraid to do/ say or believe outside her comfort zone.
     I am a warrior,
The girl who overcame many obstacles.
     I am a bunny,
The girl whose thoughts hop around from one topic to another.
                             I am me.

Life is like
Coronation street
except for the
commercial breaks.

When the faithful
Became unfaithful
I lost faith

When the religious
Sinned irreligiously
I lost God

When lovers
Turned passion into hatred
I lost love

When death
Arrived early at the door
I lost life

What little I had left of myself
I gave away to you
But you lost that part of me too.

The nights you left me, sitting, waiting for you to call me back,
All the times you promised to keep me company.

What happened to your heart, wheres the person I used to know,
What have these people done to the one I love

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

Words are like water
                   You can wipe them
Away but there will
            Always be a reminder
An outline of where they
                  Left their  mark.