The best poem
I've ever read,
was the poem
with words ever so smooth,
and a meaning ever so endless.
I never wanted to let go of that poem;
I wanted to love it even more.
but upon reading the poem over and over again,
this opinion changed.
I wanted to share the poem,
I wanted to see if someone else wanted to read it.
Nobody came.
Nobody wanted to read it.
Not a person.


I ripped the poem to shreds.

a scholar
is by
name and
read this
prose aloud
when the
5 Spot
as xgiving
is where
he's deserved
the staple
and wear
the cape
as formidable
in the
crowd and
bring cogito

I'm a book,
written in a foreign language;
one nobody can understand.

Try to comprehend;
you'll be met with confusion,
as you can't decipher what doesn't make sense.

Don't let a book lead your life,
Don't let a book help you out,
Don't let a book teach you something.

Just read the book,
see what you know,
and return it.
Immediately.

Hard to imagine life by candlelight.

Dinner and reading, days of rain.
Fire and its heat. I am used to candles with scents:
grapefruit and fir; eucalyptus mint; tobacco leaf;
sea salt and chamomile; red hibiscus flower.
Hold your hand inches above the flame, feel its itch.

The wick of a wax bedside candle can burn
unevenly and flake at its edges. The wax will
pool at the base of the wick, a reservoir of scents.

For millennia this wick was rapture, a flame
lighting moonless nights and lightly warming
little spaces. We made fire stay put, gave it a
finite life and watched it burn away from top
to bottom until it was dark once more.

Now we light the world with gaudy neon,
pulsing blisters and hulking electric strobes
that do not change. Cold fire in a glass bottle.

These fitful wicks have been replaced by manlight.

Your home is the open sky
Slowly flop your wings an fly
Such a sweet blue J oh my
Little blue farewell goodbye.

Friend will I see you again?
If so can you tell me when
When dear friend, tell me when
When will I see you again.

I just wish you could speak
A friend like you I did seek
When we met your wings were weak
But I put water by your beak.

Every chance you got you leap
Princless memories, not cheap
You played till you fell asleep
I wish you was mine to keep.

Our friendship felt so true
Everyday I think of you
Blue I won't dear forget you
I sure wonder how you do

By: Kevarie O. Leslie

It’s a terrible book. So hard to read.
Is it really such trash? Then make it ash.
No need to act like you like it so.
I know you’re burning just to let it go.

There’s no real sage between these pages.
Mental gyrations never tend to engage you.
I caught you smiling but was that so real?
I can’t really say but I know how you feel.

So now that the ink has stained your brain.
The paper cuts, they made you insane.
Now that the words are a big fat mush.
You can hush right up and light it up.

It takes a spark just to end this lark,
A little swish from the candle stick.
A puff of smoke and this joke is toast.
There’ll be nothing left of these words I wrote.

Reason will fade in the swirling flame.
Thoughts will get lost in the blurry haze.
If your mind’s made up then what’s to say?
I named it that way, so just do it OK.

Don’t let these words tend to lead you astray.
Settle on down and have it your way.
The bridges you burn are made of straw.
Burning a book’s not against the law.

Unless you do it in a public place.
Then, of course, you’ll have an egg on your face.
You can burn the words if you think it’s alright and
Flicker away in its glowing light.

Here’s the secret to your growing angst.
A simple solution to your mental trance.
Your mind’s made up so don’t get sick.
Just flick your Bic and get done with it.

i bring my notebook
into the coffee shop
writing down my
thoughts for the day

sipping on a frappe
i let my pen lead the way
writing and writing
about anything and everything

sitting in a coffee shop
with various voices
alternative music
all around me

meeting new people
focusing on my thoughts
letting the coffee fill my veins