When an airplane takes off, it makes a sound unlike any other.
Like all life underneath you is     futile,
but in the land
where you stand
where it was impossible three hundred years ago...
i suppose everything is possible.

In a woe filled world filled with darkened despair,
who can we go to to fill the air?
Laughter fills through the pollen filled powder
and I sit here alone, missing your voice, always louder.

The way that you laughed,
the way that your eyes folded at the fringe.
The way that we clashed,
my arms folded over my chest in their indignance.

We loved like no other, in our own strange way,
never touching, never telling, always knowing.

Why do we write poems?
Heck, is there really a point?
And let me say, this right here?
Trash.
I can't even express how bad this is.
Sometimes, I might write
A poem about how bad I am at
Poems. That's how un-
Original I am.
Ever think about that?
Maybe we all are poets in our own ways.

Ostentatiously I flap my arms.
Because of course.
I am a peacock and I am the center Of The World.
Everything is mine, but nothing is.
I feel the feathers slip out of my fingers,
Like a breath away in the wind, fading fast.
Goodbye sunlight, I’ll save your glow of hope for tomorrow.
Put it in my pocket.
My voice calls across the floor and fades fast.
They do not see this decorated chicken flouncing today.
Maybe i’ll Dance tomorrow.