daughters and sons wet their beds.
Fathers smile at their reflections,
blind to the veins bursting in their eyes,
the contrast between raw crimson
and violet blossoms.
It is unnatural
for flowers to grow beneath the skin.
Quick sketchbook blah
The world is fucked up, and I’m not yet jaded or pessimistic enough to not be sad.
I would die to hear you say my name.
Beautiful girls in tortoise-shell frames,
do they know how bright they gleam,
leaving shimmering waves in their wake,
leaving us stuttering woefully behind them?
My path was darkened before you came.
Fingers outstretched to catch even
a tiny brush against the hem of their skirts,
our lungs lose the capacity to breathe,
and we gasp in pathetic, silent bursts.
To follow you, I utterly reject my shame.
Lipstick stains left on the rim of coffee cups,
pens twirling between dexterous fingers.
Their lovely minds are unlocking, shocking,
destroying the notion that they are anything but brilliant.
There are gaps in my writing,
where you once belonged.
I don’t know how
to fill them yet,
if I ever will
Stylishly dressed, business casual
air of a woman who gets what she wants
generational gap closer
almost tired (not quite)
PhD in calling out bullshit
I do not wish to return
to where the air is sweet,
and youths translate
romance with flimsy tongues;
because people are perfect,
and perfection is boring,
darkened, cloudy skies
more compelling than
the crystal clear, blue ones,
soundless and oblivious.
I would rather stutter my
way through a bitter crowd,
tasting the fumes of emotion
as the artificial light flickers,
illuminating the creatures below
with each yellow-tinged burst.
Belated semi-hiatus announcement.
August got busy. Oops.