Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Day In Which She Wasn’t Late (For Once)

We hold on to the strangest things,

in the ten minutes of turmoil,

from bridges to crosses.

I hold on to the other day,

to distract me from the crowded silence.

I hold on to the other day,

when I counted the seconds,

until I could count the characters in your reply.

Now I am waiting again,

buried underneath the dreams of the damned,

daring to dream my own nightmare,

where my heart hurts,

then heals itself,

as I twist it into whatever you desire.

I am built for your embrace,

holding the pole,

just to be safe,

resisting the urge to unfold into you entirely,

wishing I could,

wasting another thought,

on the one who is busy,

but hopefully,

still seeing me somewhere in his mind’s eye.

I am carrying my whole life in a case,

for a couple of days,

and for the first time,

on one of my many quests to escape,

I just want to go home,

to you.

Do you understand?

I don’t want to be alone,

for the first time.

I don’t want to be alone.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Essays

You are crying,

as the wind watches you weigh up your options.

Waiting on a roof for a reason,

that may never come,

and the wind,

is lazy and unmoved by your last goodbye,

to a world she only observes.

img_3670

You write an essay,

with your troubled tongue,

telling the air around you,

all the things you regret,

as the rushing wind caresses your hair,

and I am on the ground,

jealous, jubilant and jailed,

by the worry that I’m too late,

abseiling down into the core of the earth,

powered by the need to be as close as the wind,

in my own way.

img_3671

She has no prayer or advice,

no real preference,

for whether you jump into tomorrow,

or jump into yesterday,

for she will continue to pass,

wherever you go,

(or do not go),

and nothing can be done,

but I will still try,

even if the world and all it’s wonders won’t.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Toyland

Summer seeps through the spokes,
of your baby blue bicycle wheels.
From the sidewalk,
I stare,
through long lashes,
and tinted glasses,
a popsicle in my pastel pout.

I hope you’ll fall,
graze your knee,
tumbling in my direction,
so I can peek,
through tinted glasses,
and eager eyes,
at what you hide,
in your toy chest.

Take me to Toyland,
on the very next train.
Wind in the white ribbons,
my mother hoped could keep me pure,
as we lean out the window,
making faces at the future.

I’m tentatively tempted,
to give in to growing up.
Discovery is a toy for two,
but once we play,
we can never return,
to being just friends,
or being just strangers,
or being untouched,
by the claws of candy concupiscence.

pexels-photo-1056555

You lay out the board,
like you’ve done this before.
Mystic, merry, mistakes are made,
your intentions spilled in my lap,
crawling up and down my legs,
as I coax myself from the ceiling,
with promises that nobody will know,
and that all the cool kids are doing it.

Then,
it is done,
and I am torn from the grounds of Toyland.
Marched to the gates,
by beanie babies,
who hold my white dress,
spotted with my innocence,
above my head,
monkeys playing the drums of my demise.

I can never return again,
and I don’t have your heart,
to remember you by,
because you only wanted to play,
for the afternoon.


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