Give me a river

Give me a river to wash all my cares,
With a sky nestled close and the ground cuddled near.
Let the water trickle and giggle over my toes.
Let me lie on the velvety grass layed below
And feel the cold water ebb me away

Give me a sun to melt all my worries,
With a bright cloudless blue to pool in my eyes.
Let the rays brush my face and freckle my arms,
Let the leaves create shadows that dance on my skin,
And feel the warmth seep through the ground.

Give me a breeze to quiet my sleep.
Let the wind sweep the strands of my hair from my face,
Let the coolness calm the heat from the sun.
Let me sleep with a soft whisper sigh in my ears,
And float all my cares on green gentle leaves,
Bobbing away in the brook.

my paper house

In my paper house,
The walls are paper,
And the floor is covered in seas of paper,
The walls are printed,
The ceiling;
Words,
Paper scratches agains paper,
Like two pieces of sand paper grating against each other.
As I walk across the floor,
The papers jut out,
Their edges razor sharp.
And my words,
The letters I wrote,
Cut seams of red into my legs as I brush through the pile,
The words rain down and slice through my skin,
Cutting and pinching the soft pink surface left vulnerable.
Down to the bone.
The edges curl and droop in soggy red as the ceiling sags.
The paper house bleeds out in rivers of blood and ink,
And droops into itself;
Colapsing
Into a dripping
Red
Ball of trash.

Summer Sadness

I decend the cool stairs
And a summer sadness fills me
an emtpy sweetness, of feeling the space you left.
The sun comes out, and we feel warmth for the first time.
But you left before it came,
And I park where you used to, beneath the chilly shade.
The nights are warm now, the days are hot.
People shorten their pants and sleeves
to wake up and look around at each other since fall.
I look around, and sit in the cool basement
without you.
You're going, not gone.
And that makes it all the lonelier.

The questions I found in the back pocket of my boot cut jeans after coming out of the dryer.

Is it better to have no oppions than to have all the wrong ones?

If I decide not to judge anything, am I really deciding anything?

Do people ever really listen, whithout talking in their head?

Can I realy do anything I put my mind to?

Could I change who I am by tommorrow?

When the wind blows, where does it stop?

How long does it take for microwaves to kill you?

Why do deaf people need to "sign" clapping?

How many of these questions will crumble into lint, before I answer any of them?


Modeled after a poem by Elena Georgiou

Alley, My Cat -modeled after Gary Soto

Like the bear, she sleeps for seasons.
Unlike the bear, her fur is for petting.
She bounces. She moves her head beneath your fingers and lets you stroke her back.
Until she wraps around your wrist and sinks her teeth in.
She stretched her legs and sniffs your hands for the outdoors.
She comes to you for affection
and sprints away if you pull her close.
Alley contains the charm of cats
One, a cat's pur is softer than any blanket.
Two, they lick your fingers on special occasions
Three, They are willing to be petted no matter your mood.
Four, they climb on strangers' heads.
Five, they fit perfectly in your arms.
Six, anything is a plaything.
Seven, They ignore you when you're mad at them, but wil aways forgive you later.
Eight, if they are sick of you, they will tell you; cats are unfailingly honest.
Nine, they are low mantinence.
Ten, they are cuteness with eyes.
She paws under the door, and waits for you Outside the bathroom.
She curls to her stomach for you to stroke; Her purr sooths your skin.
She led a prison break
She stuck it to the man
She defends the base, even stuck indoors.
She topples trees
She ate a small child, but cleaned her paws Handsomely after.
And when she rests her little head on your arm And curls into your side,
You can feel her heart vibrating;
encircled in your arms.

The Guitar

The guitar.
You touch it
and it sings.
You run your calloused fingertips over the strings
and it lifts you away.
The guitar.
I see it.
I touch it and it frowns.
I run my fingers over it and it screeches.
It is too heavy in my hands to lift me away,
and my baby fingers have red grill marks from the wires.
You could dance around the room and the guitar would carry your feet
as you strum and sing with the strings.
I could jump off the couch with it
and break all my bones.

All The Wrong Colors

The grass was red, flaming and hot. It tickled people's ankles and if you got too close, smudges of soot and red welts spread up your leg. The sky was purple; drippy and thick. Little crumbs of the sky smeared down on the sidewalk and sizzled on the grass. The tree was blue, and it swayed its trunk far over the horizon and seemed to wilt over the grass. I only had three colors in my crayon box. My friends told me it was wrong, my teacher said it was "interesting" and my mom bought me a new box of crayons. But it was too late. The colors had changed and no one could turn them back.

scissors

The little boy picked up his scissors. He dug the tip into the wood and dragged it down in a thin line. These were baby scissors, hardly for slicing through the glossy desk top. What he needed were the real scissors up on the teacher's desk, or the kind his mother had in a mug by the phone. But he couldn't see a way to get the them from where he sat and so he just repeated the same line on his desk with his play scissors until a deeper ridge formed. The edges were rough with fraying wood particles and the line was ugly. This was perfect. The bell had rung and the day was over; the gash in his desk was much deeper. As the teacher helped on coats he was afriad she would look over and say "What are you doing over there?" with the adult voice that already knows you're in trouble. But he quickly covered up the desk top with his chair as all the children clattered their chairs up on their desks and lined up at the door. He put on his ugly coat. Actually it was his older brother's but they called it his now. It was too big, too old, and had a broken zipper, but it was perfect for hiding his mother's old sewing scissors in its large bulky pockets.

The Last Stretch

Another night. Restless night.
Another day. Pitch black day.
The last stretch,
Before dawn,
Dark morning.
I sleep, I sleep, I sleep,
I wake up.
I should wake up, I must wake up, I have to wake up,
and then
I sleep.

Behind My Empty Sockets

Behind my empty sockets.
How do I feel?
How do I live?
Behind the empty seats
of the empty theatre,
Inside my empty house,
What sound isn't there?
How do I shiver in the cold
When I'm locked in tight?
Locked in tight,
Behind my empty sockets.
How do I feel?
How do I rot?
Trapped inside a corpse,
Trapped inside my ribs,
Behind my empty ribs,
Curved sharp daggers
Poised at my back.
Inside the empty insides.
Chill sweeps through.
Through my empty sockets.
Through my empty ribs.
How do I feel?