I’m not in the mood for sketching today, so here are some snippets from old poetry I found, and some new.
(2006)
“The true good in humans
is what’s in their hearts
not what they wear
not where they start”
“Stomach churning
Face pale or red
Embarrassment rushing
Through my head
But also anger, hurt, desire
So of course my mood is much like fire
Him with her,
Her with him,
It makes me sick
I wish life was simple
I wish love was fair
I wish my moods
Were less like a bear’s
I wish I could see
What I’m missing
And where I’m lacking
And less who he’s kissing
Why am I the one left out?
The one who’s here but yet unseen?
Why can’t I be the one he looks at with
Passion in his eyes?
Until then,
I cry”
(Until then, I cry?? That kills me. Hah.)
And now, something a bit more recent…
I call it, Circadian Rhythm.
I could fall asleep
to the sound of a basketball
dropping through the pit of an old net.
Popcorn exploding in a microwave
as the bag rotates like a target.
The sound of large hands
tickling a keyboard,
of either music or letters
letters that can make words
words that can form sentences
sentences that can burrow into my collarbone
tattoo the ends of my fingers
appear like whispers at the curves of my lips.
But those words do not exist.
Yet.
So I will continue lying in bed like a dancer
waltzing my way to insomnia
Waiting.
