One Brown Leaf

Some leaves, before they die

Turn into bright and deep colors.

And we call it beautiful.

And we somtimes forget that they are dying.

And we have the gall to take pictures,

Of these deaths.

Some leaves burn bright red

Or kindle a soft yellow and orange.

But one brown leaf,

Is the last to drop,

The last to rake,
A brown leaf is without it's beautiful shroud.
Because it lived the longest,
Because it died the slowest,

And we call it ugly.

All Clowns are Troubled

The smile. The frown.

Tears in red or black.

My paint runs but is not gone

To smile. To laugh.

To cry. To frown.

The play goes on, the clown is gone.

Arson and Laundry

I ran. They ran. Cops covered in smoke. BAM, the stain is gone. BAM, the stain is there. Red. Cops covered in red. Stand and run again.

Cherry Lip Gloss

I sighed as the teacher's voice drifted soothingly over my head and skimmed across my earlobes. Staring at a lip gloss smear on my desk, I used my finger tips to smudge away the gloss into a perfect heart. I continued to slice through the edges and slowly the silhouette of a girl's face and hair appeared. The face and hair shrunk with more soft rubbing and looked more boy like, until I was left surprised to find the smudge left to nothing more than a light trace of red cherry lip gloss on my fingers.

A Wooden Floor

The wood relfected soft in the dark; it was shiny, and smooth against her skin. Running and then leap into the air with her skirts swishing up her legs. Wood slaps against the balls of her feet, spinning and spinning in the center. The dark ceiling swirling above her arched neck and her leg tucks up into her final twist. Silent, except skin against wood. Heart beat, breathe, collapse against the cool floor, flat and hard. Legs and arms jumbled; laying on the smooth glossy surface. And the dark continues.

text poems

EYES IN THE MORNING my raccoon eyes. I got in a fight with my pillow and lost. My face cannot hide its luggage. And I carry it kindly beneath my raccoon eyes.

DARK DRIVING driving at night, the world gets bigger and the roads close tighter. I cannot see sky, clouds or air, i might as well close my eyes. Drive by touch

CLASS TIME sitting still in class, my finger starts to twitch. My foot is bouncing. Now both feet wiggle. I am tapping my fingers. My muscles ache with stillnes

Love Poem

I watch a wave smooth away my drawing in the sand
And I wonder where it came from.
Is it from you?
If I scooped up a salty wave and sent in it all my love
Would it reach you? Miles away on another beach
My wave would spread its fingers down the coast until it found you
And you would feel my taste in its arms
And it would return across the ocean
To me
To whisper in my ears and sting my eyes with your tears
And I would tell you I missed you too.
And every wave that reached for me would be from you
So when my wave reached yours on land
And our hands knew each other
You would recognize my wave
And know that I loved you.

Night Fall

I fell and skinned my knee.

I saw the tiny ants crawling in the sidewalk crack.

I saw my pink palms,

squashed with bits of dirt on them.

I saw an old band-aid,

Protecting the ground

Instead of my knee,

I wished I had that band-aid.

I saw my shadow crumple beside me

I saw her stretch out and join the night,

Leaving me alone.

Going for help I hoped.

I heard the leaves prattle,

Doors locking

Shades drawing

I imagined my father coming to find me

And carrying me up in his arms.

But I was alone.

So I got up and limped home.

Remembered Air

My arms are cold, covered with water droplets that stand out on my arm rather than one sleek coat. My clothes cling to me and I swing into the sprinkler's spray. The water drenches me with laughter; you cannot stop shrieking as cold sprays drench you to the skin. I stretch out my arms, and try to remember the air around me; to keep its memory on my skin. I swing up, and stick my feet into the cloud of water left behind by the sprinkler's tail. I swing back, and see its lovely arch. And I swing back down on wet air.

The Bliss of Liquefaction

I wish I could liquefy.

My body could just slip into a clear

Puddle of cool water.

Everyone around me is happy

But I am a splash of cold water in

The face.

I wouldn't mind, as long as I could

Drip off the sofa onto the wooden floor

To be alone.

The Contents of My Head

Take a look inside my head

And tell me what you see.

Show me what's inside my head

Till it all makes sense to me.

Find the truth behind my actions,

Hold up my mental mirror,

Somehow it all gets muddled up

From mind, to lips, to ear.

Volleyball

I'm stuck on the court.

I'm stuck in one spot.

The ball clears the net,

And we know it's mine.

My forearm burns,

The ball skids across the floor,

And we know it's mine.

Encouraging smiles gloss the chagrin

Of disappointment.

The Piano Recital

The air smelled of decay and rotting saliva. Many of the corpses could not keep their mouths shut and drooled pools of spit beneath their chairs. She walked up the rows and sat at the bench. Yellow worms wiggled between her toes and her useless joints sung a lifeless arm to the keys. It was a horrible sound. The sound that kills men's souls in the pit of their stomach, the sound that chokes a baby's gurgle, the sound that draws blood from wounds. She finished the last notes; her fingers slipping and grasping at the keys like a man's last breath. Her purple marked hand left her wrist and let dark blood seep into the keys and down to the floor, making the pedals slippery with blood's copper shine. The corpses didn't clap. They never did. Drool dripped, blood flowed, and the living wept.

Favorite Things

Someone once asked me "what do you love?" Everyone should be asked this question several times in their life. "What do you love?" What makes you happy. What you really love, not just like, or accept; not just "ok." There's a difference between rattling off a list of good things and a list of your personal best things. Sometimes the things we love are people, sometimes not. Sometimes there are people who are every one's favorites, sometimes we're no one's favorite. And sometimes we just shouldn't care.
So I've thought about it, and my favorite's list is still non-existent. I just don't know yet. I like a lot of things, I love a few more, and I dislike more than them both combined.