-
sometimes i get tired of working,
i'd like to be more free.
not spilling paint,
dotting i's or crossing t's.
so i take a walk, make some tea,
stretch my knees and try to breathe.
-
the warmth of this unsteady breeze,
puts me at ease, it could put me to sleep.
i feel at home among these sad, sleeping trees.
i wonder what gets them down,
or maybe they're just having bad dreams.

dear weeping willows,
of what do you dream?
a cold night of lonely moonbeams,
or of dead tiger lilies floating downstream?
i hope you're happier than you seem.
dear dreaming willows,
why do you weep?

I've never liked role models.
I don't like people,
or those who tell me how to be,
or what to do.
Honestly, I'm me,
not you.
"Be a role model, you've got to!"
So I set myself as an example,
of what not to do.
Found myself becoming,
a goal that you shouldn't pursue.
Tattoos,
torn shoes,
and a couple loose screws.
I might not be much to aspire to,
but I don't regret it,
there's nothing I'd undo.

i'm just a blip,
just a glitch,
an oddity in a system of regret.
an event that someone's trying to forget.

feel the teeth sink in,
rip word from bone,
crush heart and tear through skin.

put down the phone.

let the words sink in.
narrow down the voices in your head,
force yourself to feel alone.

don't let the pain show.

put pen to paper,
let your mind pour out,
from word to world.

inhale-
1 2 3 4

open the back door,
smell the dying plum blossoms.
take a few steps, or try to.

exhale-
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

gaze up at the sky.
do the clouds still look red?
no, but that one looks like a wishbone.

keep walking.

smile at the single dad,
he could use it, you know it.
plus his nirvana t-shirt is pretty rad.

keep smiling.

falling leaves make little ripples,
in the puddles in the road gully.
overcast days always make for the best reflections.

-
this shouldn't need to be routine.

warm night,
time to write.
she'll be on soon.
i'll try to be less polite.
we should bring up plans,
since we're so easy to excite.
i'm not a white knight,
she's just frustrated.
i was right,
i'm still being too nice.
how much is the flight?
i guess i'll see her in winter.
don't worry, i'll be alright,
i swear i've done it before.
nothing will happen, not tonight.
no, no, please go ahead.
i've got time, it's only midnight.
my words sound like color?
to me they look black and white.
we've passed all the time,
it's almost light.
i guess it's time for bed,
goodnight.

I read a lot of poetry,
and there's a someone,
who's always written about.
Her name is "she",
but who could she be?

Who's she?
She's not a he,
she's definitely not me.
There's hundreds, thousands of poems,
about her, how special could she possibly be?

I wonder what she's like,
do you think she'd like it?
The way that my hair curls on the sides?
Maybe she's beautiful,
or maybe just has a sharp wit?

I wonder if she knows how to ride a bike,
or if she could cook pancakes better than I can (somehow)
Truly, I really wonder what she's like.

i see saggy cargo pants, marijuana and at least three mall grips.
some pseudo outcast cool kids carving out skidmarks,
painting the concrete waves with wheels and their bloodstains.

hey look at that guy in the corner,
he just bought two burnt spoonfuls of a score.
it doesn't look like he can take any more, though.

or the guys playing six tricks roulette,
on a quarterpipe, on a bet,
for a cheap pack of cigarettes.