I don't know why I'm so drawn to it

It's indecisive, but in a good way
It will always be in between white and black, light and dark
And constant adjustment can fade it more towards one or the other
But it will still be gray,
foggy,
indifferent


I like it because it's subtle and it's sad
Not sad
What's the right word for it?...
Melancholy
It flutters in the background ever so softly and never seems to have any complaints about how the other colors are more popular or how it wishes it was as fun and happy as red or yellow
It's not the most appreciated color
But it is content with itself
I like that

And even though gray doesn't get invited to birthday parties or firework displays
It holds more depth and wisdom than the entire rainbow
That is why I like the color gray

Solitude
My best friend
It's name is solitude
It brings me gifts of cleansing and hope
Reminding me that silence is not golden
Nothing this transparent could be classified as gold
Solitude is the battery that charges every outlet in my brain
Creativity, logic, faith, insight, wisdom

Unceasing clarity washing through my mind
The only one I feel comfortable with
Comfortable enough to frown
Of all the realities I've lived through, I have to say
Solitude is my favorite
And until today I forgot how nice it was to have as company

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Even a scrooge,
In his castle keep,
A lone fire burning
While he drifts out to sleep,

Once wondered
In fright,
Amid the sundering night,
If he was worthy
Of either judgement or bribe.

At sixteen, he set about the task
In which he sat himself and asked,
When time is up, when stood alone,
How best scratch his years on stone?

For fear of nearing tragedy he worked
To find the words that freely said the best of worst

And so penned the lines
That in his mind,
Justified his selfish crimes:

“I sought to be a man of leisure,
But then leisure met the better of me.’

i cry too much
and i find myself in a lot of trouble
i am not pretty
or at least i don't find myself pretty
i don't feel comfortable in dresses
i don't like the way i smile
and i most importantly
don't like my history
i don't like the way
everyone let me down
i don't like the way
i let myself go down
i don't like it that i let myself
sink into desperation
i don't like being alone
but i didn't have any friends
i don't like the way i have been treated
and i don't like that i'm too nice
i hate that i could forgive
but never get forgiveness
i hate that i was a friend
and that i was used
i hate that my life turned to be this way
i hate that i was a creep
i hate i was the one with a condition
i know
now
that i hate
how
i never loved myself enough
to let anyone love me

I am not a poet.
I have read many poems.
Beautiful, touching,
Clever and meaningful.

I don't use lovely analogies
Or powerful descriptors.
I write lists.
Clear, concise ideas.

I don't leave space
For the reader's interpretations.
No open wandering paths
For them to meander along.

Everything is clearly defined.
With passages precisely laid out
To direst the reader to
EXACTLY what is being said.

Sometimes when a poem wafts into my head
It is more poetic.
But then as I put pent to paper
Only the skeleton remains.

Even this poem
Had a better feel in my head.
Yet another thing to feel
Inadequate about.

I am not trying to wallow
In self-pity (yet again).
I am just not a poet.
I would like to know what I am.

Poem a day, day 12*

Heat radiates through me.
the heat of summer
The heat of an unventilated apartment
The heat of passion

And I love it
And I hate it
The powerful burning
Intense and overwhelming

the strength of the heat excites me.
No release from it exhausts me.
But if I had to choose
I would choose the heat.

It stifles the mind
and intensifies the body
Enhancing every sensation
Making me aware of every part of me.

Rather overwhelming heat
Than cold death
Where sensation is drained
As your body goes numb.

In this heat I am truly in my body
I honour it as I search for relief
Trying to escape it and revel in it
At the same time

But it's ok
The heat will come again.