we were held together
by name tags and aprons,
cold air catching in our lungs
and warm cigarettes burning
between our shaking
finger tips

"guys it's 12:05"
didn't sound much
like a fact,
more like a suggestion

there was no outward
celebration
filled with
champagne
high heels
and a television
but a pensive
awakening
filled with
eye rolls
dark laughter
and light sarcasm

I thought about how
at this time
two years
earlier
I was trying
on a variety
of fake smiles
infront of the
bathroom mirror
in Amy's basement

well it's been
a while since
I've felt the need
for red lipstick,
even longer since
I've worried about
the stains it might
leave on my teeth

I guess we let the seasons
change with a distant sense
of apathy but even when
we can't feel the change,
we know in concentrated
recollection that not a
single thing has
remained the same
still, we hesitate to say
that anything is different

empty
i am empty
this poem is empty

it looks like poetry
the lines make it so
this is a poem
not prose

back to me
i am sad i am drunk i am alone and i am junk
these words i spit out
they do not equate
no inner meaning, hollow just as i said

i am empty
i try to fill me
i'm leaking
oh look there's a hole

Dancing raindrops carried on the wind.
In plies and pirouettes they danced.
Romancing the winter rain and biting wind.
Two of a violent kind...unkind.
Bouncing on a bungee rope unseen by human eye.
Exploding on the slabs of pave.
One wet freezing rave.
Bungee on the whirling winds.
Crystals crying icy raindrops liken to fiery hell they do descend.
Lashing cold legs with scars of cold.
Marking their mesmerizing chill.
The land no-one inhabits by choice.
Only the wind has wailing voice.
That bitter wind.
So full of awesome force!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Lunch!
Diminutive organic beasties.
The beings not of humankind.
They love them or they hate them.
You can never over rate them.
Not really Belgian.
But make some Flemish (phlegmish).
Rather sick.
Those sprouts from Brussels.
I say yummy.

The swede is not from Sweden but yo ** **.
I love it so.

Turnips, so very lush as long as not boiled to mush.
Roasted is much better.
With butter and pepper.

Forget the meat.
Forget the spuds.
Bring me in a platter of veg.
With piping hot gravy.
Maybe I'm so cheap to feed.
Because I need no meat.
Not a vegetarian.
Just love veggies for my tea.


By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)