As I get older
I would rather be
         Independent.
Than in
         Depends
It all Depends
         After all
So far
         Sooooooo good.

When the blood gates open
Pressure don't care
it breaks your door
And the blood from you
will be taken some more

They say the grass is greener
On the other side
Which makes me wonder what color grass they see
When they look at mine

People are never satisfied
with their token hue,
gardens perceive many views 'neath blue moons
yet still seek to plant their own rose colored seeds


But with the hand of seed comes a heart in need
To plant where they will thrive
And when we look at our lives deep
We see a parched land much too dry


Upgrading new playgrounds 'tween picket transplants
only proves to drain emotional fence posts,
there's no satisfaction in elevation's turf ventures
proof grows amuck the dark sod of every plot perused

I saw you
On the train
You were immersed in the Sunday Times
Headline reading: Girl Missing for 17 years, Finally Found
I think to myself you are the dream come alive
This is the moment they promise in rom-coms
The outlandish answer to "how did you meet?"
I promise this time I will tap your striped-sweatered shoulder

Who am I kidding.
We were on a crowded bus, my hair
Plastered by the neighboring sweat
You
Nearly next to me, preoccupied, with your
Tiny little screen
As you stuff your hand in your low slung jeans
Pull out a stick of gum which you proceed to chew so loudly

Who am I kidding.
I gave you a sideways glance

The sun kisses the sky good night.
He whispers,  I'll be back after dawn.
I've asked the stars to keep you warm.
And in the morning my kiss will melt your Heart.
                              
                            ~~~♥~~~

What is your story? What say you, curtsy, wile and whisper -
You, the everyman, blank face in the crowd;
You, the stranger on the streets, decked out and dapper;
nay We, who exist in the life of the life gone, forgotten, that Time enshroud?

What pictures do your eyes behold in visions past and present-
drawn to memory in intangible ink yet indelibly lustre?
From whence the dreams do you evoke in daytime quiescence
or cascading phantasms painted on pitch-black canvasses unfurled in slumber?

What paths have you taken, to gloom or glory
and upon which pedestals have you stood in crowning echelon -
when once upon a mountain peak, above clouds, you stood proudly -
or taking solace in sidewalk shelters with no home to go to thereupon.

What words should escape your lips in all manner of dictum
or wisdom and deceit for all intents and folly?
Words in coalescence like beads on strings, the essence of rhythm
threaded by tongues in guile and unwitting poetry:

What say you, as but a flower linger and wither
in the winds of Time; a mere flicker in the lives of stars?
What prose should speak your story, hither or dither
in unwitting poetry - nay Unpoetry! - as the Everyman exemplars?

Alas Unpoetic, the story of us all in bloom
told in unwitting poetry and archetypal analogue.
Alas so unique the lives we lead from conception in the womb
should by perchance end with a humble epilogue.