musings & scribbles

She looks right through
Whatever facade I use
To hide a lack of preparation.

But, you learn by action
And never know until
She looks right through you.

I want to end there, but
Some force calls me
To be righteous for a change.

Without a chance to be
More than me, I
Lie awake and seem to fall.

When in spiraled dream,
I slide amongst rain,
Seeing the world tipsy-crazy.

I can’t stop thinking of that night
We danced amongst the dishes
And used the kitchen as a ballroom;
A couple twirls and attempted dips
Bringing the freshness of your smile
To our feet, firmly planted while
Floating on a tiled floor that didn’t
Know it’d see the laughter of dancers,
Or their follies.

Looking back as though
A good friend wrote all of these
Little memories, allowing me
To appreciate the small things
I may one day still forget again.

I once forgot myself at the counter of
A convenience store, remembering
Only when I was halfway outside the
Door leading in to where I once was.

I never amounted to nothing,
Much to the chagrin of those
Who knew me when I wanted
To be something– amazing
How the one can lead to other
When enough force is pressed
Against the first, making
A bit of positive reaction possible.

How many times,
How many ways
Must I tell you
Before you stay?

A hundred years from now,
Whether we prolong life
Or continue to die, somehow
I will be where you are.
Led by breathing, my presence, I,
Will find a way to be anywhere–
Where you are.

Brought on by fitting bursts of madness,
His hands shake as he walks, cold
In an otherwise sunny atmosphere.
Eyes, wound like clock, tick his steps
To see where someone with no one around
Goes to be alone.

…and the furry monster transforms landscapes
as he crashes down, amongst the mountainous range

…of tan, lifeless leaves Fallen to be
in places they never thought they’d see
when ‘ttached to limb of tree.

Is it the writer’s fault that they think of what they write and its impact, well before it meets your eyes? Yes, because if they can take merit, they can take blame. But what blame is to be measured by gross feats that leave you within writer/mind’s eye?

Trying to edit what you’ve written is like teaching an old subject to new students.

I am in a crowd,