Hair waving up and down in the wind,
paper flapping lightly.
Maybe I'll let it go,
maybe I'll let this poem be taken by the wind.
Maybe I'll write something from the heart
and release it.
No name,
no Title,
Just words that hurt;
words I'll soon forget.
I write them down,
but why do I keep them?
I should let them go,
forget.
The world would be a prettier place
if the garbage we pass on the street
was filled with beauty.
There's no point in keeping them,
rhyming thoughts
to remind me how sad I am.
There is no point in writing them down,
but nevertheless, I'll keep writing,
and I will hold the paper down
as the wind tries to pry it from me,
and I will promise not to let it go,
because somewhere in the depths of my heart,
these words matter.

Chubby quivering droplets falling from the sky,
splattering themselves across my skin.
Too foolish to look up from my computer screen,
from my technology,
publicity,
my box.
To see the many shades of moss green and grey
that had been laid like a blanket
across the city
overnight.

Running.
A compulsion.
Tight tank top,
shorts,
sneakers,
and gloves.
I run with my long hair down,
whipping wildly as I dash down the street.

Into the forest I go,
It’s dangerous they say,
There are bad people there,
But I don’t care.
I run through the forest,
Dodging trees,
Hopping over logs and ditches,
My heart beating faster with each
Ominous rumble of the distant thunder.

As I run,
An uncontrollable smile breaks out across my face.
1 mile marker,
2 mile marker,
3 mile marker,
4 mile marker,
of nonstop running
and a nonstop smile.

Fresh air,
With the calming scent of rain.
You can’t run forever though,
I reach the end and see a gate,
I could go on but the thunder rumbles ferociously,
Beckoning me.
Thunder is easy to ignore when you’re otherwise occupied,
But when you’re stopped,
The irrational fear of the distant booms take over,
And I run back.
4
3
2
1
out of the forest with the lightening and
beating of the drums
smacking at my feet.
I come inside,
Soaking wet,
I open my window and turn off the lights and open my computer to write a poem.
The power goes off.
The thunder rumbles kindly,
As if asking me to come back outside,
In nature.
How beautiful it is, this rainy weather.
How sad it makes me, to know that tomorrow
I will still be wet,
Not from rain,
But from sweat.

I love the grey,
I love the moss,
I love the flashing of lightening
Streaking boldly across the blank canvas above.
I flinch at the thunder.
But I smile as the rain comes down,
Breathing vivid life into a bleak world.

I’m afraid of thunder
I don’t know why.
Long hours as a child
Under my blanket with muffled cries.
Alone.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the sound,
I like the way it reverberates throughout the sky.
I like the way it calls for adventure,
For a battle,
For romance,
For horror,
I like the way it means excitement.

I’m afraid of thunder.
Something about the boom.
Something about the crackle.
Something about it that shakes my heart
And rattles my bones.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the inspiration that comes trotting up alongside it.
Something about the sound.
I’m afraid of the ominous possibilities that come with it.

Thunder,
It is a dangerous but beautiful sound.

Insomniac
driven by dry tears
a barely beating heart,
and scarce,
pained lungs.
In the dark,
eye lids lowering.
Staying awake with fear,
without a choice,
cold on a hot summer's night
the shivers em pattern themselves on my skin,
a pattern of another's arms.

Shivers tracing up and down my body,
imprinting themselves
to a place,
in a time where maybe I am not so lonely.
Curled up,
pale and frail,
long sovereign hair in tangles
with sad eyes
glistening with the tears
that are yet to come.

The house is empty.
The air is quiet.
Nothing but the quiet heartbeat of
me, myself, and I.

A distant melody of a land faraway,
where I do not mind being lonely.
But that is not where I am.
I am in a place where the shivers
run up and down my arms
with every minute
of every day.

I feel the loneliness closing in.

Shrinking into myself,
I hate that feeling,
of being cold on a hot summer's night.

Loosely releasing words,
Or saying nothing at all
You can't do both,
Stay in the middle.