Lying is a skill like anything else;
And its one she flaunts around behind her innocence.
She jumps from suitor to suitor draining every benefit Possible until she's satisfied,or until she's made.
Pleading the damsel in distress card, she always attains What she desires.
She's a tornado;
Selfishly destroying everything around her in a fit of Rage, she tires out into a corpse.

I hear the
thumpetathumpetathumpeta
of chopper blades struggling
with an angry sky

And am somehow drawn
to a faceless stranger
once leanmeanandnineteen
lying in a field a world
away from where
he used to play
with ball and glove
on summer days

A rivulet of red
has pooled around him
and he is strangely numb
after cold and fear have
squeezed his ragged body
of whatever will remained
after his final battle

But he is not alone
for we are there
to hear his name
and see his face
and watch with him
the settling dust
reveal the evening sky

little bits of cheese stain couch-top

                        as if that kind of thing


                    ever mattered.

Living it up in a HB dream,
Scribbled house sturdy as a pencil,
This token of a childhood memory.

House. Family, dinner, empty plate.
Ghost in the attic. Cat on the lawn.
Four out of five smiles.

Playground. Friends. Unused seat
On the swing set congregation.
Pencil case protection from the ground.

Classroom. Listeners, artists, mathematicians.
Glaring absence note. An echoing drawer.
Raised hand at the back too far away.

This crayola madness is draped out
In ribbons, strewn carelessly over
An invitation. The dotted lines blur so

The pencil shading, the artistic peak,
Has gone too far, now it's translucent.
This invitation goes to the imaginary friend.