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writerReader Dec 2018
I guess I’m trying to write a poem
But I don’t know what to say

What is my life?
I don’t even know
How to be and live and know what I’m doing

What am I doing
I don’t know.
writerReader Aug 2018
It is time to do something
I am ready to begin
My life is not a race
It is a slow and lovely stroll
I can do this now
I know I can
I am ready to take the keys
I am ready to take the wheel.
writerReader Aug 2018
Every day I see this guy pass by my door,
he never steps off the path.
His hair speaks of his woe.
His steel eyes arrange the sky into a box,
the blue is not enough to keep him idle,
he requires the chains of logic.
It keeps him grounded when he could be flying.

“Why should I fly,” he says,
“It’s much too cold for me anyway.”
“Wear a jacket” I might declare.
He would reply, “I don’t wish to sweat through
my sensible clothes.”
(Only twenty dollars on sale.)

He is much too sensible to be any fun,
but fun is not all there is.
“There is science” he would suggest
If we ever were to talk,
I know he would be an excellent conversationalist

His dusty shoes tell of his wariness,
His jacket of his adventures.
(He keeps dust on his clothes to speak for his cleverness.)

“Conversation is for the simple-minded,” he would say.
“I prefer books,” would be my reply.

He would have nothing to say then,
(He doesn’t like conversation anyway.)
but he’d be too logical to let me know
Of his human blunder and illogical flash.
So he spoke to me of his action figure collection.
(“Most extensive, I’m sure”)
writerReader Aug 2018
I remember the color red
seeping through my eyelids.
I remember a thinning thread
falling through cloth, unbid.
I remember sweeping across kitchen floors
to the sound of crooning tunes.

I can still hear his voice
long and true.
He used to keep his hand at the level of his eyes
And his feet
six feet under.

How long until he is gone
How long until he leaves.
He went fishing they say.
He never came back.
I guess his feet weren’t sunk so deep
After all.

Where did he go
He never came back.
How will I tuck myself in at night.
Night lights aren’t my father.
writerReader Aug 2018
It used to be that it was simple.
Something fun
or something not fun at all.
It was all skirts sweeping across the kitchen floor
and warm eyes.

Blue or brown
it didn’t matter.

But sometimes it was different
it was sad and cold
and sometimes it was a cold blue.
Freezing and instant
but gone with the cracked door.
This wasn’t always to be the case.

Something new always comes
with the candles on cakes.
With the taste of candy corn,
sweet but false.
Change leaves an aftertaste of honey,
and something counterfeit.

Memory comes and goes,
time passes like the sun.
It soaks through my skin
and left me
warm. But cooling
with a lingering hug from an old friend.

There’s something about the feel of the sun
on a snow day.
The warmth thaws the ice,
the shudder of cold finally leaving
bathed in a pure joy.
Wisdom an old soul could only borrow.
writerReader Aug 2018
How sad the wind howls tonight,
how lonely.
It calls to my waiting ears through the window.
How long must I wait for the time to come
and how far must I go?
Does it call to you?

How long must my feet tread,
how long on this path should I head,
how long must I await the call,
for how long on my knees must I crawl?

Does it call to you,
for how long does it call to you?

How long until I’ve gone mad,
how long ‘til I hear the bell?
I have heard a swan’s song through the mist,
and how long will I be missed?
Do you hear my song?
Will you answer when I call?

How far it is until this path ends,
how far until this road fails?
How long have you heard its song?
And how long did you ring the bell?
Do you hear the ringing bell?
How long will it trill?

How long ‘til journeys end?
How long will you be my friend?
Why does the wind call to me,
And for how long must I wail?
Does the wind call for you?
Does it sound lonely?
I don’t really know
writerReader Aug 2018
???
It’s time
It’s time
It’s time.


What am I going to do?
Haven’t posted in a while...
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