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Shall I compare you to wonderful things?

I’m not so sure.
Likely you’d find it
Slightly off-putting
Or maybe emotional,
Too seriously gossamer
Like a blueberry muffin
Dressing up
In a bride and groom cake topper.

So I guess
To hell with you anyway
One day you’ll have a box full of
Printed concert tickets
And all of silicon valley
filled with e-mails
Random statements exchanged for nothing
Placeholders of what we might have actually
Said
To each other

Letters that smell like incense and lotion
And sketches that smell like beer
Are outdated
But kisses in a library are better
Than *** in a dance rave.

And you’d rather be someone’s lover
Than to be loved by someone.
Or be preferentially bombarded by
Tones alerting you of some alternate reality
Because I’m just talking to you without intention
but that’s not true
and I’m not wires and gears
and maybe you should find
someone you can write checks for
and I’ll die
without finding a soul
to love me in a poem
Stop showing
You love me
A little at a time.

Stop saying
You care
Bit by bit.

Stop keeping
Me here
For tiny pieces of time.

Because I need
All of you
Not piece by piece.

I love
All of you
Not just some parts of you.

So love all of me
All the way
All the time.

Or let all of me go
All at once
For good.
2011
is getting used to certain people
and learning what responses
they expect from you.
Every once in awhile
you’ll find someone
to hide in your room with you,
but eventually they’ll find the door
and leave you echoing again.
 Nov 2011 Pink Taylor
SWB
Just when I thought my muse had left
a splintered staccato formed words on a page;
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Haste in the morning fuels the morning breath
for two lovely dumbstruck lovers looking young for their age
just when they thought their muse had left.

I’m not sure I remember the rest;
The words stop like drumsticks dropped in rage,
but I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Desperate to try as my cousin suggests
burning through candles,  tarot, and sage
just when I’m sure my muse has left.

I vote for stripping this verse and shredding the rest
Getting in with producers and out with the wage;
We still have a taste for the treble clef.

Tequila sunrise and a Mumford sunset;
Is freedom a ***** once you’re out of the cage?
Just when I thought my muse had left,
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.
This is a Villanelle, fresh from the roughest of presses.
As

     the leaf

             falls,

                   words

                           fail

                                 me

                                       again.



Copyright/All Rights Reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
The woman poured herself another glass of wine,
Like another night alone.
The house was empty,
And the humming of the dishwasher bounced off the walls.
She sat by the window and pulled the black heels off her feet.
This was beginning to get old.
People outside paced in pairs.
Her house was dark.
The only light came from the kitchen,
glowing out to the adjacent ro0m.
She sipped at her wine, and rested the glass on her knee.
With an exasperated sigh,
She threw the wine glass against the opposite wall.
The glass flew, sparkling in the dim light
And merlot ran down the white wall.
She dusted off her hands, and undressed silently.
In the bathroom, she started water for a shower.
In silence, once again, she stood under the rush of water.
An hour's time went by, and the water was shut off.
Without bothering to dry herself, she stepped out,
And fell into bed.
Winter
is a
**** good painter,
a monochromatic realist;
vast extent  of white dominating
her canvas of life,
creates a stark symbolism--

Black or white,
what difference does it make
when everything you love
plunge in to
sub zero temperature?
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