A poem each day,
Thirty a month.
Then if a chapter of poems has, 30, 28, 31,
Soon you'll read a chapter a month.
And if a book,
Is twelve chapters dear.
Soon you'll be reading a book,
Each and every year.

An
c
u
r
StateMent                 H
e       a                 Making
d       r           T    e     s
         Through    a     t
         y        Melancholy
         r            s    s     r
         i            e           You'Re
         z                                i
         e                                s
         d                               k
                                           i       R
                                        Another
                                           g      a
                                                   d
Of.

And as I tumble through the pages
Of my favorite books,
I fantasize of a better place;
Of a life that isn’t mine;
One where I am courageous
And strong
And unbreakable.
I fantasize of a place
Where I am the heroine
Instead of the villain
In my own story.
I fantasize of this place
And pray for that world to swallow me whole

I like to lie on

the floor, thinking, with a book --


upon my stomach.

This I would read
As it was up to my speed
At recess while the other kids were
Beating eachother up
And torment one and other
While I was when one the beaten
And tormented
I took to studying law
During recess in
Avoidance of the bullies
This.... this was
My mother's idea

I'm invisible

when I read a poem, I'm --


eavesdropping on it.

5:30, 4:30 -
Up ever earlier.
40, 50, 60
Pages of the encyclopedia open.
All with tabs,
Of the many windows, pages, & folders.
Through the looking glass,
Roaming far & near as an extraterrestrial.

Silent days, delicate rains,
clip clopping like marching horse,
on thin, steel roofs, and nylon umbrellas.

Drenched, sweating foreheads in summer climates,
consistent, cool winds like drooling  ice,
drying sopping skin, a rough cloth to an oily pan.

Starved road trip bellies, after intermittent rests and games of eye-spy,
salivating at laminated menus, and passerby plates,
pre-meal hot fries, fulling deep guts with salty chips and fizzing raspberry.

Waking hours before blaring alarms,
knocking parents, a whistling kettle, and the popping toaster;
an hour to lay restless head into the deep world of snug pillows and warm blankets;
as if your whole universe is one big cushion.

Finishing a chapter and curling rough page with soft finger,
placing floral bookmark into the straight crease,
placing it back into its spot on the shelf or bedside table.

Dawn coffee.
Friday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Kind encounters.
Meeting deadlines.
A finished poem.

When your heart races,
Rushing out of a dream,
And words leave spaces
And lines in between,
Where your heart heals
To be shattered again,
Like oceans surreal
Once the reverie ends,
Frantically you strain
To let yourself sink,
With a mind soiled, stained,
And brimming with ink.