In the 18-30 range.

Little contortionist
big gymnast
schooling?
definitely upside down with myself,
almost knowledge bumping heads
yourself jumps
little course
big obstacles.

How did we ever think we would get here?
How did we ever know what we wanted?
Why is this working?
Why doesn't it?

If tired I was at the first jump,
If intimidated you were at the stack,
Now slogging through my paper clumps,
Now three ideas on 80 tracks

never coming home.

Little reader
big idea
career?
certainly dodging unfit personality clothes
almost picking typical threads
someone else.
little fall
big debt.

Under appreciated gangs

Two bandaids
Same finger
Nail polish slowly chipping,
It is a days work and leisure,
Calousing fingertips
Because it makes sound easier.

Sometimes I fix the chips
Sometimes I miss the small triangle shaped scars,
Litteral scars. Proof I was trained
To wield sharp scissors,
That I sacrificed myself in tiny chunks
That customers walk away satisfied.

Occasionally calluses are enhancements
Little buffers between metal anf flesh,
Steadiness and shaking.
Hands are so very tough to work and play
All in one afternoon
And hardly hurt at all.

Little gangs of 5 for tearing, snipping,
Pressing, shaking, building,  molding,
Steering, smearing, thanking, ripping,
Strumming, dropping, picking, tying.

Respect.

30 minute sanctuary

30 minute bright lights blink down at me, irritating my light sensitivity syndrome.
I blame this for the rivers that beg to break.
30 minute four walls where I will be cross-questioned,
so scared,
so afraid,
if I could only turn around and say nothing.
30 minutes of saying whatever comes to mind to save my soul,
30 minutes of lies,
30 minutes of I should have told the truth.

30 minutes of It wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault.

It actually wasn't my fault.

The lie,

was that I didn't tell the truth.

For 30 minutes, I felt a little bit better.

Let's not be real, here.

One time I told the truth and as a result,
someone else
picked up my heart and walked off with it as if
they deserved it because as the liar,
they looked better and we all know
looks are all that matter. 

What was hiding in the rose?!?!

Letters stacked on top of each other confuse

me 

trying to decipher the meaning

download pending 

the meaning hid in a poem that

used to be somewhere else

i

do

n't

under

stand

why the 

f

ck

u

,

you

wrote

yu

or

Po

em

like that^^

Image: Rose 1, 1977, Sweeny Reed

The blank title in between

There is a fine line
between knowledge,
and hysteria.

Decisions and Eyebrows.

There was a big decision to make,
and I didn't know the answer
so I plucked my eyebrows instead -
defer payment till next month.

Possibly Solitude

You never really know,
when you're sitting on the porch
beer in hand,
four friends in front of your face laughing like something was funny,
whether they're really there
or off arguing with their boss
fixing their car
kissing their girlfriend
stressing about bills
like you are.

At least you can all pretend
you're not alone.

Sleepless, not in Seattle.

If only I could fall asleep sooner
I wouldn't have such deep
thoughts, pondering the meanings
of life and such,
Like I'm the most interesting girl
I've ever met. But
I'm really just trying to work out life
as if it's not one of those books where you make one wrong move
and after you turn to page fifteen
to find out
what the beloved heroine does,
She dies.
How arrogant of her.

When I'm older I'll wear sweaters.

When I get older
I'll feel much better if I
put on a warm sweater,
scarf over my shoulder and go.
And I'll go
out in the cold
but I'll have my favourite sweater and I'll have
my favourite weather at home,
where no one goes
unless they come to see me -
just put on my sweater and go,
my favourite music's playing even though
I know the 8-track is old,
down the street and
just hop on an airplane and go.
And I'll go
out in the cold
but I'll have my favourite sweater and I'll have
my favourite weather at home.
Touch down in Miami,
shorts like Pa and Granny but
my sweater stays on and
I know it always smells like my home.

I have an army.

I have an army behind me.
It runs in heaps with heaving breath and
light, but sured steps,
It has a sword to cut my path
though I go quickly streaming past it
should I need It,
MY army barrels through the fog,
the night,
blinding sun,
cold morning light that still gives hope when
feet are weary from climbing
the slopes of friendships past, or coming,
the pound of fearful heartbeats drumming, my army soothes with battlecries,
shields raised,
blood that dries.
My army is behind me, always.
My army lives.
Remind me,
Always.

Oops

Forgot again
Despite commitment
Why?
Maybe knowing that something is going to happen
Creates an unknown aversion or
Fear
That manifests as forgetfulness?

Game Night

Little Mario ran around
Bringing a common sense to the
Funny drunken game
That made strangers into friends when
Peach ran ahead of that monkey guy.

"I Shall Not Hate"

Somehow
Muslim wisdom
matched my Christian
notions,
blew a hole in what I thought I knew.
A whole new buffet of friends to choose from when

the menu changed from "Us and Them"
to just "People."

The Forgotten Poem

Was a little boy sitting in the back of a bookstore
Frightenned as the lights went out
and The Keeper closed the latch
on old wooden door,
nervous knot of anticipation wondering if
The Brain Police would catch Wonder tonight
on the journey through the stacks.

Promises

Well it seems I have forgotten to write for the last few days.. I always do that for some reason... as soon as I say I'm going to do something, I forget all about it. If I don't commit to something, I remember it better sometimes.
Who knows.
Anyway, today's poem.

Promises fall
like little birds shot out of the sky tumble
towards Earth
A little unfair
me down here,
you up there,
I only wanted to be closer but
I guess a gun wasn't the way to go.