wasted.

-you feel
like you're wasting
my time.-

this is playing
on a loop
in my head,
on repeat
in my mind's ear,
over and over.
just this
one
thing
from so many things
that were said.

from so many lives
that i've lived.

and my reply,
softly and sweetly
like a whisper:
yes. you are.
respectively,
it is still my time to waste.

so
stop your damn crying.

its my turn to be delicate.

A conversation I had today

L- "its alright, there will be other, warmer days."
me- "the sunnier the weather, the warmer my disposition."

L- "you are a sunflower"

me- "in a poem, I can be a sunflower, in real life, I'm just a crazy person."
L-"Life is a poem and no one, not even yourself, can say you're crazy."

mud (a poem)

I can't decide if my mood is contingent
on the weather, or if Mother Nature knows how
to mourn with those that mourn.

The ravens hover precariously over me outside,
wobbling like kites in uncertain wind.
Ravens shouldn't wobble,
ask Edgar Allen Poe.

My eyes burn and fidget and then leak
as big fat raindrops fall from the sky.
First... slowly.
Then a drop for every heartbeat.
Then a drop for every thought.

Today I am as 'bright and cheery'
as the mass of dark, bruised clouds above me.

My heart, folding back up into itself, pumps
from its chambers and hoses
mud
as thick as the mud in the driveway
my car will be stuck in tomorrow.

i am cold
and quiet
sludge;
if you give me a hand or a foot,
i will hesitate before i give it back.