Looking at you, wishing the day by.
So good to be home
and out of the heat.
All those excess people reminded I'm alone
as I explored the busy Chicago streets.
A poetess can be wasteful when it comes to love.
She'll wade and wallow
through the waterfalls below and above.
She'll sip big for ability's sake and swallow.
He has an appetite
sweet to satisfy.
But he's so distant and curt,
with painful goodbyes.
Over the short years,
we've fired comments at each other
that were like deadly darts
in the skin of some clever animal,
Thanks to Ivan Donn Carswell for all his help and corrections. He's an amazing poet, happens to be posted on this site; look him up.
The music stretched out its notes;
It seems that when I was at my busiest point,
treading water in this chaotic sea of estrogen,
(that is my life)
you managed to waste my time,
We had this priest come and talk to us on the feast day of St. Joseph and so strangely he mentioned a girl would know the right guy because he'd be willing to sacrifice his dreams for hers and for God's. Not only am I not a god, requiring sacrifice, but my dreams so often don't follow the path I imagine God would dream of. I suppose, at one point, it's Him or me.
Seven deadly pink roses waiting on my windowsill;
I am a sidewalk that cannot handle another footstep;
A bone that is too weak to be broken
because it halted growth and from motion is kept.
And I'm the game machine spitting out tokens.