Her long fingers grasped
the midnight blue pigmented stick of oil,
pulling it across the sand coloured card
as if nothing else existed.
The way she focused on the piece of art
she was creating-a piece of art
much like herself,
was exhilarating.
On the card was variations of
shapes, colours and shades-
much like herself.
She wore a prominent frown when she drew,
shaking her head and muttering things to herself when she went outside the lines,
making her hair fall into the middle of her shoulder blades.
Just like her masterpiece, she was
made up of
shapes, colours and shades.
Eyes a large oval shape
her nose a  triangular sculpture against her soft features.
The skin on her nose and against her cheeks were a darker shade of olive,
compared to the rest of her imperfect countenance.
Hair like black coffee cascading down her back,
merely reaching her frail waist.
A sense of nostalgia surrounded her small frame.
The masterpieces she creates show sentimental meanings,
hidden with oval shapes and midnight blue pigmented sticks of oil,
much like herself.

When he walked into that room, he carried his whole life with him.

There is something.

It all began when the umbilical was cut.

After that conversation, he just wanted to drink and be whole again.

She sighed with pleasure and slipped the bonds of the appropriate.

He was as nervous as a ***** in an earthquake.

A thousand years ago, he would not have made that promise.

Jesus, get that thing out of here!

Life was good; he had just gotten an NSA grant to study the speed of darkness.

Sure, I knew your mother; she was great in bed

I have always believed
that every woman
deserves a poem.

If you have never
read those words

(though doubtless
you deserve better)

accept these words
until your own
arrive.

   ~mce

Its been a long time since
I had anything important to say.
Still don’t.
The focus that writing requires
is distant,
fog-like and out of reach.
I feel it misty on my skin sometimes.
I turn my hand around and its spirit
touches me softly, tenderly.
I feel it held up in silence.  
It is brief and then its gone,
or I go, or both,
and then the sun burns bright
and the clock runs fast
forward through the day
like an hourglass where
the ringing in my ears
is the roaring of the sand
through the gap,
and though it is contained,
it brings down with it everything
my mind cannot hold onto….
  
There is no focus.
Mainly guilt,
but I catch a glimpse  
once in a while in the mist,

and when the mist is on my skin
there is no roaring through the gap

rather drifting, slow,
methodical as intended…..

Just not very often

Old reflections and new revelations seem mired by my past.
Words thrown together for amusement the wreckage now simply a skeleton for children to play.

Sandalwood spent offerings the afterglow has long since left us cold now it lingers only in whispers somewhere within the catacombs of a dream I so eagerly forget and relive with each tune played .

Does it  still seem the same from you distant view my dear?
And old fights passions spent dried blood and a once in the moments ecstasy and a bitten lip.

How it seems a stranger now a old sentiment for a even older fool.
To hell with the memories they stand a tides pool of nothing I give a **** to embrace .

Maybe the nights are backdrop a story overplayed but none so beautifully ****** up as you.
Sureal is it now as my pavement of reality old faces and new enemies it's so ******* overplayed sweetheart almost as I.

We are nothing more than the example of the carnage .
Scars shared echoes of a illusion and are shared delusion how we laughed with the crash.

Tell me do they linger fragments misspent with others we react are ways with such bit players and one night stands where did we become
so jaded in a perfect sense.

Its all a act of repeat .
I dialed the number and simply hung upo before there could be a response .

For that train was derailed long before it met the station my dear .
just because I never reached out .
Don't ever believe I once did not care .

Lies we tell to are souls turn us to bitter old fools .
And this was my cue.

Exits are simply roads to yet another stage .
And mine was set long before my words reprise .

Yeah sometimes you just can't avoid that rear view mirrors
gaze no matter what kind of ******* you have become.

Pawing through
the dusty box
of memories,
well-covered now
with a thinning coat
of gray hair.
Rummaging,
setting aside years
better suited
for a Goodwill bin.
A few keepers;
but must pare down
the hoarding
and prepare
to travel
light.

Have fun, or *******. ;)