One day, I’ll stop writing
One day, I’ll stop dreaming
One day, I’ll stop believing
One day, I’ll stop hoping
One day, I’ll stop trying
One day there will be no more poems written by me
And there won’t be anymore pain
One day I’ll be gone
Maybe it’s today

Nameless, near dead.
Aimless. In the stead
of a key to a kingdom,
I believe I received
the hand me down mess
of a life before my own.

How do I live?
Carpet to back,
eyes cast at the ceiling,
desperately loosing
my dreams and my feelings
in tears?

Drawing stick figure pictures
in the sands of my past, alive,
if not wealthy or well, I'm still
not sure what to tell you when
you ask how to survive.

I seem to lean
into my shadows, failures and faults.
That ***** too natural
and my downward leaning too easy.

What darkness have I learned?
What sullen seed has
merged into the deeper passages
to transform
into thorns?

Is it my repeated stumblings
or the sin of another
inflicted early
but now forgotten?
Maybe it’s so terrible
my mind has stashed it way way down
now a fungus still alive in the dark?

I feel too at home
dwelling in that cave
and I am in need,
I am sorely in need
of light,
enough lasting exposure
to **** the blight
scorch the itch
and set me leaning
into an upward pitch
to thwart the dark

proclivities.

i am the “beware of dog” sign
and you are the dog
you are behind me
on a chain
loud and angry
i am there
so the next person that crosses your path
cannot be upset
as there is a sign
that warns
to beware of your tendencies

Funny how easy
Loves appears to be, until
It laughs with the other easily
Reconcilable "maybes"
That devalue your first "hello".

First, it began as "hello".
Little did you know how
Interested he would be in you, but
Reflecting on it now, you see how those
Tender tendencies weren't exclusive.

Finally, all you have left is "hello",
Like every other girl he knows.
Inevitably, you're one of many
Recycled pretties that thought
They were more than another "maybe".

Even if they hand you the scissors.  Even if everyone tells you, "you should."
You can't truly severe the ties, unless you make the choice that you want to.







And the thing is,
I don't want to.

At times you will tether
yourself to another
And pull hand over hand
just to discover
you've woven every strand
but all you are holding
is a rope made of sand