There is a hidden warmth in you
you do not show to others
and it pulls me under
like quick sand.
Or maybe it is the movement
of the sands that embalms
my body and carves out a
sinking place for it.
Or quite possibly the sands
are a prison holding my
body as it lays me down
waiting to drown as
the wicked seas overwhelm.
Or maybe I am at the helm,
I am sitting out far inside
the seas, I am waiting to
be brought ashore
I am waiting
Or I wait no more.
I am not quite sure.
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across... -
July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at...
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July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someo...
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there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
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stuck-wallpaper, tickled, matted-madness, in the morning before matinee wallflowers at school dances just want to be asked. ask them. they...
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My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...
Poets United Contributor
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