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.

poemday

this one is a story...

in the basement of that place, the echo-ey concrete,
the click clack of your shoes/sneakers no less on the floor.
The dirty, dark other rooms,
mysterious, and feeling like a scene from a cheap horror film.
first person filmed.
someone might scream in a minute.
No.
this is where my heart snaps and my head yells "RUN!"

this is not a horror story.
in fact, there is little, even, of suspense.
it is a measure. a test.
of my weakness.
i went down there in search of a fix.

fix nixed like a ton of bricks as your bag of tricks and your thumb and finger clicks. rub your chest quick, with Vicks. don't mix the licks.

its paramount.

click clack-your shoes
snip snap-my heart

and i'm still here.
i'm not running.
why am i not running?

i'm drinking you up,
weaving the threads,
tongue, cheek, teeth.
leaving the dregs.

its what i do.
YOU untangle the webs.

i am not good. i just wanted some of you to feel high.

and now the snow is here, stealing my spring.

poemday

Oh. This basement is cold. Dark and dank
and all the things you'd expect a basement to be.
Darling, I was quiet before, but now I'll be frank
with you. You deserve the honesty.
I'm buried in this blanket.

I'm walking away from the scene. That car crash
disaster area; that dream I had of rolling and rolling
and not dying. Some mad dash
to the life I was looking for. The one with meaning.
Credit or cash?

Here I am now. The wind is talking to me,
ambiguously, subtly, the wisest sound
is the delicacy of the wind chimes. Chaotic harmony
Now, look at me! Crawling up, soon to be found
Walking and walking until I'm seen.