Poem: Goings and Comings

written 8/29/09

He left, and his closet

became storage for the

ironing board.

He returned, and in disbelief

threw it

out.

He left, and forgot a mass

of clothes and trinkets

of sorts.

He returned, and remembered

the piles of thoughts

and plans.

Thoughts and plans

thrown

out.

On A Walk: Writing Exercise

in second person.

Critique Welcome!

If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have committed to memory the looks on the faces of the hundreds, of the hundred thousands, of men you've passed on a walk like that. You'll have seen how they look at her. How their eyes drift down her toned, tanned legs, and you'll be torn between punching their nose, kicking their crotch, and running down another street to cry in self pity. If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have chosen the latter. But if she's a good sister, a friend, she'll have searched and found you. She'll have looked away from those hundred thousand men, and pointed out the one geeky boy who looked at you.

And you'll both have laughed.

Poem: What Happens?

written 8/4/09

critique welcome.

What happens if my pen stumbles

over words that won't come?

Words that once flew winged to speckle and splatter

a blank page,

what happens if they can't form,

if they don't form,

like they aren't forming now.

It's because I don't have experience,

I know it is.

Don't tell me different.

Don't try to tell me different.

I know my lack of self, of hurt, of love,

is all my own fault.

I know my fear of fear is pathetic.

I know that, if I felt,

I could write again

Poem: Lies

written 8/1/09

Critique welcome.

I've opened a Pandora's box

of secrets

without meaning to.

I've told things normal people

wouldn't tell

and lost affection.

So I kept secrets,

gained trust,

but lost truth.

Poem: My Spotted Socks

writted 7/13/09

critique welcome.

Threaded with pink

and white

and a tiny bit of orange.

Thoroughly worn

and loved

and torn at the toes a little.

They don't exactly keep my feet warm,

But as long as I can look at my spotted socks

I almost don't mind being cold.

Wondering...

Why I've forgotten my pen

And it's stout comfort.

Why I revel in other silly,

Unimportant half-joys.

Why I've not let my heart

Pour out to my God?

My future...

Just thought I'd post this.. it's kind of silly, but it might make you laugh :)

This desperate child
With hair of brown,
Short and stout 
Disinclined to frown,
Will find within

Herself a dream
One that others

May have seen
She'll find a prince
And dance in the snow
And write away her days,
But she'll never grow.