nubthousands of wasted wordsand still no poems
lovemy joy in you was short livedmy sorrow everlasting
the open roadthe road beckonsand I will answerI will ride Highway 65until my gas money gives outand leave my tired Buickin a soft ditch with the kudzuI'll walk until I finda place that touches me a soft patch of cool grasswith a view of the whole big sky a quiet placewhere I can lay myself downand no longer weepwith wearinessthe stars will shine downfrom the sea of nightand I'll smile whenI close my eyesknowing I can nowrun onforever
Tank Away 11The winter solsticehas passed. Winter nights will shorten,hearts warming with hope.And from the soft, hushed darkness,a new sun begins to rise.
running errandsit's not theeggs or milkor breadthat I'm afterit's the soundlonelyis quietand whenthe silencescreamsI mustfill itwithother people'snoise
dreamerhe's goneever searching forgreener pasturesand she droopslike a flowerin the rainwaiting againfor hisreturn
incalculablehe's good to mewe eat at nice placesand never arguehe's gentle in bedbut he isn't youwe lived onpeanut butter,ramen noodlesand the world fadedwhen you cameinto viewdisappeared utterlywhen you took mein your handshe loves meyou almost killedme with your leavingbut if you roared backinto my world tomorrowhe'd be forgotten bythe time we reachedthe highway
lightlesssince you've goneyour memory lay upon my worldlike a shadow across the suna point of impenetrable darknessfor which there isno remedy
revenantsome nights,dreams aren't enoughwhen the acheruns deep,I need more thanremembered embraces,imagined trysts,more than hopesof tomorrow, next week,next yearI want the truthof your bulkbeside me whenI turnin the dark,the realityof warm skinnot my own,the unknowingof lonelybut you're not here(and no one else will do)so I willtoss and turnin the cold armsof my dreamingonce more
My own problemsYou know I care about her,she's my friend,and yes,I'm curious to learn about him,but leave me now,these daysI have my own problems.
tsoris.how to live with analcoholic mother:i.at four, wear the dress she bought youand promised to hemand let her touch your hair when she'ssober and crying; tell yourselfthat mommy is sick and mommy is sadbut it will get better, because that'sdaddy said. watch her pack her thingsinto cardboard boxesshe will never have the guts to retrieve from yourfather's garage. tell yourselfthat mommy needs to go on a drive in thatbig red van and thenshe will fix the dress and then you two willgo on a drive together (becausethat's what she said).ii.when you start school and seeall the girls come to classwith their hair inpretty braids, try not to miss her– askyour dad to braid yourhair and do not crywhen he struggles to pull it into a pony-tailthat is too tight. do not cry whenyou cannot go to themommy-daughter girl scoutsleepovers, because mommy will be home soon;she told you that onthe phone (but you couldn't understandwhat she was reallysaying, becau
Silent SpacesBeneath a double moonmisting over with cloudswaves wash a mourningover jagged rock silhouettes.Space sits idle--stars lost, no lights to follow home,wind-bent palm treesleaving signaturesinstead of reading them.Birds shape strong feathersthrough silent breezes,beaks empty--songs forgotten.The planet lives and sleeps silently;on a beach abandoned, littered with shells,a lonely glass jar smears the inkdown an unread notewith sweating tears.
twenty-fivei burned through this summerlike a pack of cheap cigarettes.all these snowflakes in my lungskeep chaffing the burns.
i have a bone to pick with youi’ll dig my gravewith the bones i usedto pick myself apart.
saywords are violent and jagged;razor tongues trying to lickaway yesterday's wounds.
And Then She Was Born and Spoilt It AllThey say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.True.But sometimes - I'd rather say, often - beauty becomes the synonym of perfection.Either perfection or nothing.Imperfect result is equal to zero result.All criteria must be accomplished, or it all is a flop.There are seven criteria.Appearance.Manners.Brain.Charm.Creation.Work force.Order.There could be more, but I'll stop here.Doesn't remind you of anything?"Please tell me if she has brain pathologies"."Why do you think so?""She got a B. And she knows it well that she must only get As"."I've got an impression that you had a plan of her development before she was born...""Yes! And then she was born and spoilt it all!"Every moment is precious.By the time she's one, she is to be able to speak frequently, and two languages at least.By the time she's two, she must be able to read and write.By the time she's three, she is to begin studying at school.Preferably not with snot-noses from first grade.By the time she's f
It's Not a HobbyNot just a hobbyNot just for funIt’s a passionIts beat and you are one Not just a hobbyNot for when you’re boredThis elementIs so much more Not just a hobbyIt is part of youSomething that keeps you goingLike people have no clue
HumanAll of us are born human.But not all of us die human.Some of don’t die at all. A human recognizes their brethrenWithout having to ask any questions.They can tell who you are and what you areWith confident accuracy. A human will shed a tearWhenever the clock strikes twelve.It doesn’t matter if they see it or hear it,They know when it happens and that it must. A human will accept the factThat time is continuous.They know that the world won’t stop for them,And that they cannot stop for the world. A human bares two heartsAnd perishes when one of two ceases.No heart can beat forever,And nothing can change that. A human has three voicesThat cannot be silenced.A human has two eyesThat cannot be blinded.A human has two earsThat cannot be deafened.A human has one life,That cannot be ignored. A human is regarded as a humanA human is thinking, breathingA human has rights and freedomsAnd ceases to exist once they g
SucculentLike a fig ripened in thesoft summer sunplucked by rough,unchurched hands,I find my sweetness eatenfrom the inside outuntil theres nothing leftbut skin.