[x]

CloudyThere is something worse
than writer's block;
it's when the words come in
through the heat,
through the loneliness,
or the sheets with
writhing contentment.
It's when the words are right
in your head
for paper or someone else,
and all I can mutter is that
my head hurts-
and I need to go to sleep.

GaspThere was no
life in
danger, but
she pressed her
lips to his

and breathed
into him
all the
same.

Ignore AdviceWrite ten bad poems.

Write one hundred
bad poems.

Write profoundly.

Write and drink.

Keep a notebook with you,
write in public
and make sure that others
know that you are, in fact,
writing.

Write a love poem,
then throw it away
because all the good ones
have already been read.

Ignore advice,
write about the decision
instead of the feeling.

Write one sentence
-make indents,
say to yourself that
this is it, THIS is IT.

Then delete,
and tell yourself that again.

PlayHer green circles
open wide and
her pitch black
mouths whisper
that your face
is close to her face-
it is close enough,
and that she
also said: "only
the hands", but
you chose to
forget, because
it feels better
this way and
what is wrong
with a hedon
who wants to be
sculpted
from gold
and loud music.

InsectThat man
at the
corner

does not
watch the
light-

instead,
he smashes
a bug

who had
somewhere
to go.

PeakShirtless in bed,
on a lonely
saturday night.

An impatient man
writes impatient
poetry.

ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refus

We Can Make Reams From The TreesIt is
waiting
for newspaper

to turn
crisp,
and yellow

then red.

Autumn
novelized,
no more

stories
of winter
and

dying.

How about
we
circle our

favorite
words,

I chose

blush and
brunette
and
roof,

goodnight,
twice

just to
make

sure.

WildYou could never be strangers again
in that void of charged space
between the eyes and the air.
And the other people, who are
less than faces in the crowd.

Maybe it was a true dream of
dark times, always walking,
you are thief protected by gloss
that they could break
if only they knew how.

The lion at the zoo could
jump the fence, the wolves
could dig beneath the glass.

Safety is a mutual ignorance,
and it is something to be reminded
through wilds of the woods,
that she has fangs
and so do you.

A Full LifeA man, who has
never tried to harm
another man,
lies awake
and wonders.

Glossi.

This is a poem
for lip gloss
and the pre-teen
who wears it
and the old woman
who tried.

This is for
sparkle and stick.
For bodies like
candle wax.
For all the boys and girls
who would breath in
those scents
when the wick turned black.

Before their hair
turned grey with ash,
and their eyes fogged over
from the naked heat.

Before young love dies
and is buried in a shoebox,
with a little pile of rocks
to mark where it was.

ii.

This is for
the scared little boy
who spent all his time
sniffing candles.
While pretty girls
lay on autumn hills,
and even the crickets play
in major key.

With their noses
face down in

Eye ContactHold these thoughts
closely.

You are a
frienzed,
sex-depraved madman.

You are waiting
for the flowers
to murder you.

You are drugged up
on mental chemicals.

You are lonely.

You are every dark secret
and
every act of kindness.

You are nothing
(important).

But do not believe for a second
that you are a ghost,
drunk on freedom.

The woman with the stroller
sees you.

The man rubbing his glasses
with his mouth half open
sees you.

The child
and the white-knuckled toy
see you,
and watch as if
the whole world were new
and a man who could pass through
walls and skin
was something special
and worth attention.

AgingWhen I walk on the curbs
of downtown, I can turn my head
and see my reflection
in the glass.
In the windows that stand guard
against the smoke
and the rain
and the winds.
I can see myself,
flickering between panes
as I move down the streets.
I can see myself,
wrinkling
wisening
waiting to grow old
and learning how to remember.

Second SphereI found part of me by accident
in a Parisian cardboard box
with satin rags; purple ink
depicting people and clouds.
Tungsten from the wires
of lightbulb husks.

He kicked my hand when I pulled him out,
my fingers caught up in the blonde.

Here there are boys who count
the golden rings of Saturn,
and retinas that lick up the sunset.

Pictures of Japanese lanterns on the sea-crest
and swarms of orange fireflies.

Girls who do not dot
their I's with hearts,
and wait for iodine skies
with slow, dripping
thunder.

Paperback SpineIn stories,
the lucky ones
have their lives changed
by one little moment-
one dandelion puff
between your palms.

And the author stresses
this moment, how tiny,
that seemingly unimportant
sentence, breaking
into a novel.

You have to be
always ready.

My eyes have gone dry
and my lungs are about to pop,
and my tongue is oversaturated-
and burning.

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Blessed Bedroom (Re-Write)I'll pull the sin out from your body heat with a single whispered wet confession.

I'll stroke Him off your blossomed lips; my rosary. You can be my chanted verse.

The rest is just one
silent
fervent
sweat-stained prayer,
left to sigh among the sheets.

Amen.

Dog AdviceI spoke to him as an airplane glided overhead: "I have always had this sort of love/hate relationship with melodramatic phrases and expression. Words and terms that were once powerful, like love and soul and eyes and ocean, have all become weak and horribly cliché as a main result of brutal abuse and overuse. There are other ways to write love poems than basic comparisons and Italian sonnets; it's quite obvious that you can stare into somebody's eyes and figure out what's going through their pretty little head. But there ARE other features of the human anatomy, can't you watch her chest tense up or his shoulder's simply slump and relax b

The Storm Awakening (Re-Write)As chaos was my skin and
lightning was your touch,
my body shifted like the sands
of a desert at midnight;
with sirens far in the
distance. Dunes become linen sheets and
the sun is held in a bulb of glass:
wake up, wake up.

Some thief in this barren night
has stolen my lightning,
my light.
I thought I could keep you
safe inside that jar, like when
we were children. But no,
some other solitary pair
of hands and heart are watching
you flicker and flit and dance:
wake up, wake up.

My lovely firefly,
what stories or warnings are you
trying to convey in your
glowing ballet? Come back home,
the night is young but we are not:

AntidoteYellowed wallpaper flowers bloom and peel
in the steamy interior shade.

The kettle sings a monotone falsetto.

The clouds are made of moths
flying towards the sun.

I can feel your hands asking me
yawning questions
in the way they cradle your porcelain glass.

I could find an answer if you want to know why
but for now,
please
just look at all this light.

Sepia LightHe could be the lead of a silent movie
in all its sepia glory. There is
dust on the film; and light-
that shines hazily through the smoke and jazz
of the old world.

She smiles while beauty marks pepper the screen
and nobody notices. Not even him.

There is a woman stroking the theater piano lovingly to hide
the voices floating through the air as silent as ash.

He waits with impious attention for old-fashioned lines
to cross over the stage and whisper something,
something new to him.

But anything that could waltz off their tongues
is caught and held by the cigarette filter projector.
Left to crackle, as the piano moans under the w

UrchinThe locals called him
"urchin" and the tourists
didn't call him anything,
or even worse.

***

The orphan master said that
he was about 14, but it
had been over a year since
he ran away;
you would too.

***

You can make good money
at a beachside town by
collecting shells. So every day
at low tide, the urchin would
scavenge through the pools;
looking for something,
anything.

***

It was early summer and
all the foreigners (who knew nothing
of the ragged boy with spiky
black hair that stalked the
beaches) were aging
complacently in the sun.

***

The urchin spotted a few
sand dollars a ways
away. As he went up
to take the

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Ghost Story

by *FallingAsleepTonight, Sep 6, 2012, 11:44:58 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

What is this
on the next horizon
holding strong against the wind,
it is a figment,
it is an oil stain,
it is something
less than a blur
and more than a photograph.

Ghost Storyby *FallingAsleepTonight

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Just a little, quiet poem.
Comments welcome as always.

love 1 1

joy 1 1

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Sigma-Echo-Seven Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Concise and meaningful. Well done.

~willyamPax Sep 9, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

VERY CLEVER BRAVO!

*FallingAsleepTonight Sep 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks!

~So-lovelyxxx Sep 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Hm, I like it's simplicity.

*FallingAsleepTonight Sep 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks

*Shadowdragon700 Sep 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

wonderful picture you painted. i can really see it

*FallingAsleepTonight Sep 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Awesome, thanks

~cskadoz Sep 6, 2012 General Artist

nice!

may i suggest omitting "it is" in 3,4 & 5? think it might read better.

*FallingAsleepTonight Sep 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'll think about it

~BelaRoseWolf Sep 6, 2012 Student Writer

This is a really cute poem!

I like the theme, and the words are really nice. Great work!

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Ghost Storyby *FallingAsleepTonight

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