start a poem;
with what?
I choose a word and think: I always start poems
just like that;
I want to be more abstract
and tralala pulchritudinous --
there's a word for you; I used a thesaurus,
how phoney
how transposed and disconnected from my heart
I write

and I know I can do better than that
than this
yeah, I know that
and I'm a strong believer of
art
creating itself
when it's meant to be created
and that sometimes it's just not meant to be
but when there is so much
filling the heart with wistful agony
and agonizing wistfulness,
creating something pretty
feels pretty good; and you'd think
there'd ought to be something
to write about
if I can feel this much inside of me
if it's that heavy...
I guess
what I'm really trying to say
is that
I'm afraid.
but that's not good enough, is it?
I want to write wilting lilies and papercuts
and stubbed toes and a bit of rage and longing, but mostly
I want to write the truth
and the truth is
I'm afraid
that I'm not enough;

but I know, I know,
that's not good enough, is it?

going without sleep is a thrill
how many drugs will i take before
my demeanor is crystal clear
with angelic brushes of grace and sincerity

when will i love my mind, body and soul
when will the snow come for me?
let the frost overcome my body heat
let it burrow into my skin
frigid parasites to devour us whole

my limbs are shaking
with energy from
drug induced freedom
from the shackles of feeling

do i abuse it,
or does it abuse me?

my fixation is
slowly fading away
and its ties to my heart
are fraying at the end

i can breathe again
for myself,
freedom comes in increments
starts with gnawing at your own teeth
and writing for yourself

i hope my silence leaves you empty handed
and you will know then what you had
when you forced my love to disbandment
for a while there, i was pretty sad.

but i'm moving past you now
like a stream smoothing over the rocks
while your head is up in the clouds
i'll be learning how to talk
again

you made me mute
in your torment
our one sided theories face the refute
i will no longer remain silent.

i will embrace the air like
a long lost relative
abandoned by the sands of time
i gave all i had to give
and now i will reclaim what is mine

Pecan-Pelican, feathery nuts
Pelican-Pecan, shells and guts
Could fly away, most likely shan't
For a pelican can but a pecan can't

Her blank canvas
Empty, but promising
To become something good

But her masterpiece took an evil turn

She used only one tool
Strokes of only deep reds
Letting the paint drop to the floor
Where it would then stain

She hid her canvas
Until the deep reds had faded to pinks and purples

Then she unveiled it to the world

It wasn't a masterpiece.
It wasn't a piece of art.
It wasn't beautiful.

It was ugly.
It was disgusting.
It was horrific.

No one liked it.
Except for her.
So she decided to continue filling the canvas

This time experimenting
Different tools
Yet still the only color she used was red

She went days
Weeks
Months
Years
Adding to her canvas
Until one day

She couldn't

Her canvas no longer meant anything to her

So instead, she burned it