Today, I ate rice
and sauce. I woke up at 2 PM
and decided to shower
tomorrow
maybe.
I brushed my teeth, spat on the brim
of the sink, and
left it.
I went to
0
of my classes
just cause
I think it might
be cold out.

The willow hangs,
drapes the ground,
dances to a tune
unheard in the hum
of cars and lorries,
in the commotion of
people passing in a
hurry, barely noticing
anything more than the
phones tapped with
fingers & thumbs.
But I notice,
I see it all,
the dance on display,
the symbol of sanity
I need today.

They say that time is supposed to heal you
But after all these years
I've never felt more broken

K R W

drifting upon
the waves of hypocrisy
being kept afloat
by the lies i've told
all it takes
is one proven truth
to puncture
the shell of my being
and leave me sinking
towards the bottom
to rest upon
the sands of my betrayal.

I start with a single idea,
smoldering sweetly like a single
piece of coal.
If I leave it unattended,
too much time and moisture will combine
to cool the sweet heat
of creation.
If I write before it's ready,
time again becomes a factor.
A hot coal needs time,
the unwise smother an otherwise fine fire
with sticks and leaves and logs.
Some are attracted to the
bright sheen of gasoline,
but all I see is a brilliant facade
that fades within seconds.
It burns too hot,
the heat isn't appreciated
and the living leave for darkness.
A good poem, like a good fire,
needs time and tact to survive.
It needs to be nurtured, worked
and tinkered with. A good poem
needs varying heats, complimentary conditions
to grow.
It needs time to breathe, room to
become a bonfire or a forest
fire. Either way,
I try to bring the bright heat
from the warm coal of creation.