The fog has permenantly frosted the window pane-
my fingers tracing, communicating nothing,
I leave perpetual markings--eternal
my love for you dearest one,
troubled, forbidden, bedeviling--you.
precious hieroglyphics for future generations
to ponder--were we a society obsessed with
nothing but each other, with love,
with ourselves?
We are only star-gazers
We only reach for the stars
too
far
away.
My fist breaks through the glass--
shattering the barricade between
me, and sweet, dark air.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
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...
-
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...
-
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...
-
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...
-
there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
-
stuck-wallpaper, tickled, matted-madness, in the morning before matinee wallflowers at school dances just want to be asked. ask them. they...
-
My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...
Poets United Contributor
No comments:
Post a Comment