I feel like a lot of people can relate
to the never-failing love for all the cookies on my plate.

Sweet, delicate, chocolate chip.
I glance at the milk, then take a sip.

Even raisin, sugar, or oatmeal
cause' any kind of cookie is a good deal.

Every cookie, every crumb
these beauties make my heart go numb.

The excitement within me grows and grows
at the pace of the aroma drifting into my nose.

Without realizing, I may have eaten over thirty-one
Any regrets? ha! None.

Four Years.
Four years
of high school basketball:
has come to an abrupt halt.

You see, we'd swag into the locker room.
Pump up the tunes.
throw on the black air Jordan jump suits
and whip out the pre-game moves.

The three coaches walked in
We listened to the pre-game speech
Popped a couple altoids to "keep it fresh"
then slugged a bit of water

The warm up commenced
Lay-ups
Three on Two
Shooting

One more locker room run.
Jersy's on!
But right back on to the court
Where the fans anticipate.

Just a few more shots
Now one minute left
Time for the National Anthem.
"Gentlemen remove your hats."

Pre-game nerves suddenly sink in.
"Oh say can you see."
Thoughts about the game fill my mind.
I look at the crowd, and my loving team mates.

"And now for tonights starting line-up."
Names announced.
Team has last minute words
one. two. three. "swag" ....Tip-off!

We were so good.
So athletic.
A team with 8 returning seniors
we were such ballers

Conference Champs
District Champs
But we couldn't beat them
"The best team in the state."

We weren't sad about the loss though.
We were sad that we had to leave this team.
This team that we'd been with for four years.
We loved each other more than anything.

The final moments in the locker room were bittersweet.
Tears of sadness, tears of joy
We accomplished so much, but above all
It was about the memories we made together.

The tears on my keyboard
bespeak the pain
that is in my heart

I can't write research papers
about books
I can only read books

and besides
poems.
are the best kind of writing

There's something quirky about Thursdays.
I don't know if it's that they happen once every 7 days,
or if it's because they sneak up on you after every Wednesday.
Or maybe it's because Friday is right after.
Maybe it's because you're supposed to eat tacos and only tacos
And put those three fingers into a bowling ball.
On occasional Wednesday nights it's good to stay up til' Thursday.
Whatever it is about this day: I know one thing.
Make every Thursday memorable.

The man took a bold step outside into the sunlight.
His glasses began delicately shifting to a shade of gray:
this made others around him feel uncomfortable.

Mischief
under the
moon
in Michigan
means
making
many
memories.

I was once told a story
of a kindergartener
who slipped on her face
during class
and shattered all her teeth.
The teacher looked at the teeth
coating the floor
and told her students to
"Pick them up."

I only closed my eyes for a second

The death forest surrounds me.
Ghostly white trees mocking me in their silence
Woven bleached bones of all the fallen
bound together, glowing under a pale full moon
Empty eye sockets peering at me
as I weave in and out of their grasp
Inside the mist, stumbling without guidance

There’s an old man, sitting in one of the trees
laughing at the insanity but oddly distressed,
smiling at me. Cackling with glee but weeping
as he reaches out to touch my hair and sweep it
behind one ear. It’s comforting in it’s creepiness

He’s whispering to me in a smoke scratched voice
Comfort is as comfort does
Redemption is not at the foot of a hill
Catch a tiger by the tail
and it’s your blood that will spill
All I can hear is booming laughter
that shake the leaves of the bone dead trees
and as I watch them fall to the ground and turn to ash
I realize the old man never even opened his mouth

Then it’s all gone*

I’m back to sitting in front of a stone cold hearth
ripping pages from the book of my mind
and watching my Memories feed the fire
as I poke it with a red hot piece of steel
It was all the fodder for the fire I could find
Sipping from the crystal goblet filled to the brim
with Lies mixed with Deceit with a slice of lemon
and a dash of Arsenic just for a kick
The fire casts prisms of light bouncing from the crystal
onto bare walls to show a slow waltz of torture
that bleeds down the bricks in sinking desperation
A rainbow of colors from a ***** oil slick