Sorrow is a tidal wave
Washing over those
Trying to frantically swim away.
Sorrow is the unexpected guest
At the dinner table,
Who isn't supposed to be there until
Never.
Sorrow is the rainstorm
That won't let up.
And sometimes you find yourself
Dancing in the rain.
Feeling the cold wet
Drops on your face,
And you realize
Sorrow is temporary.

I am born in the wrong century.
I do not want to use the
Lifeless objects
Of this day and age.
I want to go back in the past.
If I had a time machine,
This 21 century Jane Austen
Would go back to where
She belongs.
In England.
In 1803.
And live to see what happens after that.
Now it's all not fun. And games,
But there's an art
That's hidden
Beneath the tapestry of time
An art that
Is desiring and longing
For us to feel at home.
This is my longing.

Is a dichotomy.
It's a mix between the literary
And the story.
The ratios of metaphors
To mind blowers.
Where is the balance?
Information
Then a quote
And back to information again
And I am nothing but the writer
The voice telling the story.
I am unimportant

It is morning,
The sun is awake
And mourning
Comes with the break of day,
As I wake up once more
To face the world
It's mourning
And I'm supposed to
Cry and be still,
But it's morning,
There are things in their own time
To come.

I am angry
Mad
Seething
Grinding my teeth,
Clenching my fists
I AM ANGRY!
I think I will not matter in this world
This world will survive
Without me
I am nothing but a speck of dust
Under your feet.
Why do I matter?
I will become a nobody
I am a nobody
And I cry and cry
But the world offers no comfort.
I am angry
I am mad at myself
I am stupid and fat and ugly
And I matter to no one

I wheeze
And my throat creaks
Like an old door
That needs oil.
I gasp,
Like a fish out of water,
And I cough
Like an old man with a pipe in
His hands, about to
Meet death face to face.

I wrote this poem while I was asleep
About swimming birds,
And Cheshire cats,
Purple trees,
And broken hearts.
I wrote this poem while I was asleep,
My head hurts
My eyes are as heavy as
Stones
And I cannot
And I so not want to move.
I breathe
Silently,
And I wrote this poem
While I was asleep.

"She leaves at about two o'clock"
" whoops sorry"
"You think it's five?"
"You'll come home early?"
"I've got the info on my computer"
"I like paper"
"Slipped out somewhere"
"We could go at one forty"
"Cool"
"They pick up the trash as they walk along"
"Very much a servant"
"It is not up to me"
"I didn't ask that"
"Sometimes"
"You just have to make it yummy"
"No all the time"
"Yeah"
"I do try to limit myself, it hurts your teeth"
"I eat a lot of it"
"You would use it out at the graves"
"So she could eat that too"
"We won't drink it all"
"We need to stop by Sam's to pick up my cooler"
"That's the idea"
"They won't go out to dinner with us"
"I'd be happy to"
"There's an Applebee's there?"
"We should call and make a reservation"
"He's got a special place in his heart for Applebee's"
"I'm happy to take him."
The car ride
And I'm writing poetry
When they are the poets

Enter the world of color
Of competition
And danger.
Where all things seem possible and
Nothing is unexpected
Where enemies
Are tricky
Cunning and  just plain stupid
Fat and lazy.
Where an Italian man
With a moustache
And wearing red
Screams
"Let-se-go!"

Yes that is the world I
Am speaking of.
The world of the wishful,
Dreaming they could live in it forever

And there's been a funeral,
I've cried,
Shed a tear,
Hugged my grandma
And put a smile on my face.
It's Sunday
And it's Father's Day.
And I've cried
Hugged my father figure
And prayed for my grandma
It's Sunday.
Church choir sang
And I've cried.
Because it's Sunday.