Silence
Why do we do this?
Continue to build—
this wall between us.
Creating dark clouds,
and rainy days.
Letting all the world know—
how far apart we’ve become.
Little birds
tattooed on her skin,
seem to reach the sky
caressing the clouds beneath her breast.
And I failed to notice them
in the black of the night,
accidentally brushing them aside
as if to smother them beneath a blanket of selfishness.
But as the daybreaks
they again show their need to be set free.
Just as you did. Little birds.
Just Drive
She jumped in
her hair a mess,
in a faded blue sundress
and said “just drive”
it was late
the night sky dimly lit,
when she pulled back her hair a bit
and whispered “just drive”
Past the corner
and beyond the hollow,
nobody in sight who might follow
I heard it again - “just drive”.
Why she left
I’ll never know
maybe
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Piano
The piano sits in the corner
silent, stained with music from years past
each key frozen in timelessness
melancholy, veiled from the purpose it served.
And a shadow hangs tight to the wires
muffling their melody,
as I strain to hear the notes, faintly echoing
only to frustrate myself when forgetting the lyrics.
Years pass, and I still see you
sitting at the piano,
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There are times when Im reading a book I find a part that seems to penetrate my skin. Though it may not profoundly change anything, the words continue to haunt me. Below is an excerpt from Daniel Hechts novel Skull Session which is just that.
But Ive decided on a title for the story. I call it Five Things Worse Than Dying, because the schizophrenic...
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But Ive decided on a title for the story. I call it Five Things Worse Than Dying, because the schizophrenic...
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Smoke Rings
Exhaling
perfectly formed spheres
transparent, though not,
drifting further away
dissipating in slow motion.
Each ring resembles
parts of you,
as the shape of your lips,
an image between hips
only to keep me there.
Smoke rings
in an already filled atmosphere,
a room filled with them,
floating, aimless
abandoned
until each one becomes
part of the whole.
Open your mouth
one last
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Pretend
I tried to hide it
the large stain
on our white linen,
so black
that it took on a Dreams shape.
One of pretending,
helpless when falling
past all madness
laughing insanely at the sharp edges.
Many hold out
in an attempt to catch you,
fingers like raw spaghetti
brittle, breaking
leaving only needles to hold in the past,
braving gazes of pity
along
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Images
blynd_poet:
Images of me