She was sitting on her windowsill,

looking at the tree's.

She was sitting on the windowsill,

with her hands between her knee's.

Her mind was at the edge of nowhere,

waiting to be seen.

But nobody came to look for her,

not the clouds, nor the tree's.

Her feet were braced right at the edge,

no longer anyplace to flee.

She was sitting on her windowsill,

thinking how soft the ground looked

way up with the tree's.

Downwards she tumbled,

now she was seen.

She is sitting at her windowsill,

floating with the birds and the bee's.

I'm that pretty kitty
Sitting on your windowsill
Leaving dander on the glass
Looking more than my fill

My fur is brown and black
My claws are sharp as knives
My teeth are quite sinister
And I've still all nine lives

You've never paid me much attention
And I ceased attempts to receive it long ago
You go about your day ignoring me
And I stare covetously through the window

I know you can see me
Every blue moon, you'll wave
We actually get along in a way
But not enough to sate all I crave

I wonder if you'll ever notice
My stare is unadulterated jealousy
But you never seem to notice
I also envy that naivety

But I'm just the pretty kitty
Perched up on this windowsill
All I want is to be seen from inside
But no one ever will

I've only eyes for the inside though
I've got my friends on this side of the glass
And they look at me, bemused and disgusted
Because, in all ways and forms, I'm obsessed

But I'm different and I'm on the wrong side
And I'm just the pretty kitty on the windowsill
But I'm not comfortable with my own kind
And with yours, I'm just good for visual appeal

So I'll sit here on this windowsill
Gazing enviously
Because neither side fits me
But it fits them perfectly

The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.

here i am sat in the windowsill
of a person's office while they're working

if i am slow enough, and quiet enough
maybe i will be able to get by
but i am so lost and they look so intelligent
i want to ask them for directions back outside.

the tree in the window, a foul reminder of where i was before
all this happened.
i stare at it, and it stares back at me with a strange sense of distant
sympathy, the tree.

the human at their wooden desk
with machines whirring and fans spinning
takes notice of me here.

and oh, my woes,
i shall spill them on this windowsill
and lament for a life short lived.
these days, a spider is no short of 8 steps toward death
after seconds of being born.

but i am old, and i have lived
a great three months of my life.
somewhere between half or a quarter of my lifespan.
middle age has been kind to me, i am plump and i am intelligent.

my webs will serve as a story for the others to see
a warning for them to read that this human is
like the others i have heard of,
cruel.

but, they stand up, and they speak to me.
they call me friendly. they inspect me.
i feel rather embarrassed, so i try to hide behind the blinds
but the human opens them, and their big eyes peer into all eight of mine.
i try to escape but i'm frozen to the windowsill.
"this is it", i begin to say my final speech. my family is somewhere outside, resting, while i am face to face with death.

and the human stares at me, and speaks to me
like the giant furry thing with three legs that they called 'cat',
and for a moment that at first felt fleeting, and soon became a warmth, i felt... loved.

"friendly little intruder! you shouldn't be here, you'll starve."
they say with their sing-songy voice.
they skitter out, much like i move myself in the windowsill.
i try to find a means to hide, or a bug to eat. a place to make a web, and hope that i am scary enough for them to leave me alone.

but they return, and they place a dome over my head.
at first, i am fearful. they are so much bigger than i,
and i have heard the stories.
but, the shoe that they had brought sits idly. it is not an expectation, but a last resort.
and i peer into the dome, and see caring, gentle eyes distorted through plastic peering back at me.
a smile on their face, a shaking to their breath.
we're both scared, but for different reasons.

i want to ask them: why? why do you help me and why are you scared? i cannot hurt you.
they whisper that they don't want to hurt /me/.

and then it all feels so fleeting, from that point on.
i watch their nurturing gaze through the lens, before it is lifted above my head.
this time, i freeze, but not out of fear. we are working together to go back outside.

i am introduced to a small plastic wrapper of something too big and too foreign for me to understand,
but, what i did understand, is that there is my way out of this windowsill.
so i crawl on it, and the human puts me in their little plastic dome
a lid with freshly pierced holes for breathing comes down over it, trapping me inside for my brief ride to the outdoors.

when the big front door opens,
i wonder if i could show my gratitude.
so i linger a while, and i stare at the human who stares back at me with a patient smile.
i wiggle my my chelicerae, cleaning them with my fangs to show content.
the human recognizes it.

i have never felt safer, in these few seconds, than with this human and this mystery plastic out on the concrete of their porch.
"you will have a much easier, and better time out here, little spider friend!" they beam, and i cannot help but hesitate going home.

because what is one more day and night in the windowsill
of a friendly human and their plastic domes, and cheerful eyes?
there is no harm in staying, when they will not **** me.
so i think i will invite my friends, next time.

in sticky drops
ink runs down my
paper skin
blood-flowers grew
as I wrote by the
windowsill

a gloomy Sunday
more tainted verse
up and down
there was a stinging
as I wrote
and a drenched earth
peered through
the foggy windowsill

wind caught the
curtain
petrichor rests on my
tongue
as rusted pain
sat atop the windowsill

we finally bought a house,
it was the one our families rented out for vacation one summer.
that was notable since it was the one we’d hurry to run away from
trail down to the beach and
we made a fire on the sand.
of course we had to set up a tent and
we were back by morning but every now and then we’d look up through the yellow windowsill to see if the lights were on,
just making sure no one noticed we were gone.

through the yellow windowsill
we’d exchange faces while i was in the house
doing the dishes and you’d taunt me
you’d be outside
soaked of your own sweat after skateboarding.
your sweat didn’t stop you from stealing a kiss before you left me alone once again.


through my windowsill though,
the scenery gets darker,
the drizzling rain progressed into windy showers
and it doesn’t feel like i’m here right now.
the oceans waves are at the highest tides now.
crashing.
unforgiving.
seeming almost unstoppable.
i think i need to slow down.
i think fantasy is what i want but reality is what i need
or what we need..

i think i should get my body off the edge of the windowsill.
my imagination is rapid.
help me my love..
my grip is getting slippery..
i’m bound to fall..

Raindrops hit my windowsill

I have screaming in both of my ears

I'm somewhere between wide awake and passed out

I am unblinking up at my ceiling

I forgot to how to feel

My mouth is slack and my eyes glass

My hands couldn't get a grip for the life of me

I'm surround by containers

My thoughts have stopped pounding

I can't remember what I wanted to forget

I'm sure that this is safety

I've never known anything more secure than this poison

I know that it's better than my own toxicity

I have my blade in my right hand ready when needed

I am used to needing to bleed just to double check

I'm not always sure I'm still alive

I hate myself for choosing this state over pain -- but

I don't want to come to my senses

I can tell it's already starting to wear off

I can hear from somewhere distantly close

Raindrops hit my windowsill

Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.

I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.