I have my
half written poems
I have this blue window
to look through
when I’m lonely
I ignore its
invitation
I sit on this bed
like it’s the edge
of the world
the white sheets
sleep behind me
like restless angels
I scribble words
I call it poetry
I write the word
love in black ink
and the walls
become irritable
deep blue shadows
swallow my room
of souvenirs
I want to hear the
sound of violins
I want to hear the
sadness in your voice
become clear
I need a pleasant dream
I need something solid
to lean upon
I need something to
sooth these
shaking hands …
Clay.M