There's a spider in my bathroom, watching everything I do.

                    It watches me comb my hair, it watches me make poo.

He watches me in the shower, something like a human in a zoo.

                   He's even watching me now, as I write this note to you.

And you just might be thinking, oh wow, that's kinda cute.

           But the thing is that you aren't aware of Peter for his truth.

We've been in here for a week...
                                                                                      or a month...

                                                   maybe 2?

I've been trapped in here with Peter
                                                                   and I don't know what to do.

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

Never flush
not tight fitting
a little bit out
not quite sitting
right with the world,
I always was an odd bit of knitting,
two plain stitches instead of purled

Hanging on my walls are two pieces of art;
large canvases boldly splashed
with colour, stroke upon stroke form vivid arcs.

I wish I had kept my father's paintbrushes,
they were tools of masterpieces.
From them, my strokes could have made faces flush
and inspired songs and poetry; love?

*
But, perhaps…
‘twas a blessing to create with unique expression and freedom.

the fishhook plunges -
catches a big one, adrift;
the tension scales up.

Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.

a ;
a .
a ?
some - – —
an ‘
some ( )
a ,
an _
a few ‘ ’ " "
the rare *
the gaping ...
some [ ]
some { }
some !!!
and a healthy :

there you go,
you can write a poem now.

Feed your starving soul,
Let inspiration flow.
Thus you slip away;
Don't wait another day!

Capture every glance.
Still the water's dance.
Freeze the hands of time;
Your Spirit needs to shine!

Look now through the glass.
Don't let the moment pass.
Starving soul, feast on,
Before your spark is gone!

©KSS 11/2014

To wake up and wonder,
A blank screen, and a cursor
Blinking on and off,
Like ideas that stir,
And thoughts that drift,
In the docx, they confer.