We're both writers but,
why is it that we cannot
truly express what it is
we feel without the recommendation
of a movie reel-
We're both writers, so,
then why's it so difficult to row
through this murky sea
of dyed blue cotton-
-the softer things forgotten
between you and me.
Why have we not yet had our fill
maybe because we cannot still
we cannot put things into words
we're just translating notes we thought we heard
our lack
of vocab
is truly absurd.
We're both writers but
we just cannot
say everything we should have said
we just have to put those things to bed,
Curl up close with that heavy weight.
Pretend it is not too late.
So every morning our mailboxes tote
another hastily written note-
or you let those things just float
and give me lyrics that someone else once wrote.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
-
a know-nothing non-something, a song, a back-slap, a tree without sap. crowned with ceremony and melancholia- a whistle, a snap. a marriage ...
-
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...
-
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 th...
-
like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
-
That previous December, a little voice was coyly in-treat-ing: "Take an angry butcher knife to your hair, and paint it the color of a s...
-
Rain, dearest friend. You know just when to pound on my head. I know there is more to this world, than what I have given from inside myself....
-
driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
-
There is something spooky about me. I am certain of it. Or else why does the thought of you dying for me, somehow slightly perk me up. Bette...
-
August 2003! A spree, and the W.A.P another month of you and possibly me W.A.P stands for wild animal park, if you don't remember- the ...
I feel like this was written in a way that I'm not supposed to understand the subject, however, after reading it, I feel like I might understand the subject better than you had intended. We should discuss this piece some time when you're able.
ReplyDeleteglad we discussed it. It's something you really should consider more.
ReplyDelete