The blank page.
It calls out to me,
wondering why things happened the way they did,
or for what reason.
Does pain reach a consensus with eventual pleasure?
I drown in a sort of resentment,
the red tinged lamplight filtering through to my frantic
scribbling.
6/14/09
Inspiration at the tip of my nose,
the tips of my fingers,
the glance of my eyes.
Splash of color,
rusted car,
uncorked wine.
A frenzied maze of symmetrical emotion,
Premeditated at every possible turn.
No harm in that.
Where I could just as well force thought from its occupation in
my head.
Nuisance flown, emotion need not apply.
Or, so I'd rather.
6/16/09
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem