the girl is not not in love
she is just not totally
in love in love
the sharp sting of always
settled into routine
the inevitable of morning
each inhale brings
living american dreams
five days a week
a grief weighted blanket
rocked her to sleep
every new night after.
by my own hand
I wore my heart
and its resentments
on my mind
for all to see,
to look away.
Sketch #233 (Written in front of Frida Kahlo's Diego on My Mind, I love her artwork)
There is nothing
All the jars and cans
Sit empty on the shelves.
There is no hope for more.
The roads to everywhere are closed.
And Greyhound doesn’t stop here any more.
Everything is nebulous.
The equipment is all broken down
And rusting outside in the rain.
We ordered from a catalog
But never got a shipment back,
And our check was never cashed.
There is nothing in the pipeline.
The doorbell doesn’t seem to work.
The screen door has a hole in it,
Patched with pages
Ripped from next week’s calendar,
And the phone declines to ring.
Everything is over now,
The happy times
Are past and gone.
All that’s left to us is weeping
And the Kleenex box is empty,
So the tears make puddles on the floor.
All we see through tear filled eyes:
Another day in paradise.
Sometimes I don't know why I write what I write. It just happens.
Every time I begin to clean with a magic eraser I feel sad, because of the pure white and clean lines soon to be smudged and torn apart. I console myself with it's function, the beauty of it's usefulness; but still.
on my fingertips
the small noises
of a still night
Happiness tucks itself inside her smile
Distrust slides its scales between her fingers
Beware to those who would love her
For you never know what else follows