tundish

bare like the trees
and blatantly shattered
he points to his wounds

I press my face
against the winter air
coming through
the window
it’s march things are
about to bloom

but first,

in
alcohol
I slip into the crazy

I can tell and
he notices

because as I walk
down the street
a cloud
pulls me away with
the shimmer of something
that is imagined

leaving me stranded
somewhere in between
my world and
the sidewalk

Advertisements

warm and fuzzy intervals

Mother nature is taking its toll
crumpling the paper
and turning it into sprouts
attach
to this pen
hang on the edge

I just want to lay face down
on the wet grass
my mind is full of delusions,
and there is no proof of the love,
or a continuation,
or any resolution
a reunion of the same

colorless
confused feelings

I push you from my mind,
only to still feel you in the room

Lost but not stolen

I got my bike back today.
The bike that I thought was stolen, gone forever.
I never thought I would see that bike again.
Today, I have it.

I rode it to starbucks
like it was my first time out in public.
I admired its colors and
thanked it for its service.

Since I haven’t gone for a ride
in a while,
I am understandably tired.

I will take a lesson from this.
Some things aren’t gone forever,
but reenter your life
when the time is right.

Although,
I could have used this bike
a week ago.

Art?

For I am an artist
the little things in my mind

are incoherent

But I want to,
desire, yearn, long,
for
complete understanding

Yet, I don’t want my world
to be completely
disrupted

or tainted by
the evil in the world

It is a sort of innocence, childlike
which I hold onto

It is not easily understood
by the matured crowd

My sense of language is not
understood by most.

My sense of creation
is not understood by myself

For what I create, is impulsive

One can draw squiggles on a popcorn drawing,
but they have to ‘make sense’

Who says.