glass jars are often knocked over from the top
shelves of Grandma's kitchen by
little candy-wired brats
we're going to shatter on the old wood floor, my friend
and all around they will hear the loud
crash and be stunned and horrified
and we will spill out and the
damage, the freedom could never be
undone. i feel it. a change is
going to come. we are not meant to be
kept like this.

a change is going to come, i don't know when
or how but something is starting
i feel the shift, pressure is building and
breaking. is it discomfort? an unease?
restlessness? it feels as if disconnected
parts of my life are stringing themselves
together, to form some new textile.
material beyond the imagination and
of utmost beauty.
i feel like i will finally be
pushed to do that which i always
wanted and wished to do

write.

the pen is my lover, and i only scribble
on and on and on about heartache and the paper
understands, and i wish i was graced with the ability to write
about people and exotic places and beauty
but my heart is sore and so i
scribble on and on and on about the boys, the ones I
could never have, a love that was far-fetched
and an idealized romance

my inspiration comes from one place
an empty bucket with a fat leech
rolling and squirming at
the bottom
the leech is the dream
to the leech i drain it
give it away
let him feed on me

at the airport i see a tall man
with green eyes
the bucket fills, i'm allowed to long
and believe
i write
as the dream slowly *****
the juice away