What "it" is exactly;
The world may never know.
But through clever subtle suggestion...
I hope to bestow or show.
Let it begin
To some it pushes;
Others he pulls.
It's the longing of writers
And the desire of fools.
The artist must scratch it
Creation its only appeasement.
But the industrial man
pretends he never sees it.
It stabs at my feet
And rouses my sleep
Like finding the peace
In the crashing of seas;
Shore; it has a name
But to know it would conjure blame
And we can't have that!
Or "it"
So make.
*ART

I'm restless and *******
but ******* isn't even really right
because I'm not angry,
I'm just not remotely content.
Frustrated, but it's more than that
and I'm unable to put into words
the inability to fake more
enthusiasm or happiness.
I'm not ok with where I'm at
not just in life, but literally,
geographically.
I want to pick up and run,
run far away, fill up the tank
and drive until I'm on empty,
and I'm not sure if I'm referring to gas.
Where would I end up
and could I find some semblance
of an adventure there,
something to kickstart
me back to life.

Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;

give me that,

because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.

I was a child of the river. Always living within walking distance of the restless water, the uneasy docks, and the anchors that kept the boats steady. Even as the current smacked against the starboars, the sailboats would waiver but never fall. I admired their tenacity. A child of the river: strong but restless; the anchor and the starboard; a suburban sadness-- a yearning for something beyond the river, but too weighed down to sail. A child of the river, stuck in a stagnant town.

You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean

amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns

I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart

I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of  lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers

look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night

Out of my mind
Anxious
As the seconds bleed out as if from a stone
Every fibre of my being wants not to be
Here
Now
But I am.
This is why I write
This is where I write
I sigh to pass the time, and sigh as I rhyme
Bored.

Take me someplace where the air
feels always like the leading edge
of autumn, crisp, stirring emotions,
provoking restlessness.  
Permeate my lungs with longing
and my feet with an ache to go-
destination inconsequential;
secondary to movement and flow.
Take me to a time when my spirit bubbles
over like champagne frothing; leaves me
naked and glad.  We’ll leave
a trail of inhibitions, tossed in crumpled
piles, behind us along the way.
Every breath will whisper
that I am exquisitely,
undeniably
alive.

Take me there
It’s been a long time.