When I lay my head down to sleep, I can feel your loneliness calling me; can you feel my pain calling to you? The emotional mess of what I’ve become, seemingly unaware drifting along in your own world of perfect palisades.
In my dreams, I am haunted by a creeping mist, trying to find traces; knowing you are out there but I can not seem to be able to find where; helplessly skirting the unbearable that will leave me with the just hurting.
You have to be aware of what you mean to me, I have been completely open to you always. You have hidden yourself in a murky cloud never letting me entirely near; just circling on the edges of your mind.
Leaving me writhing in kind, hopelessly wondering, withering vine. Will you ever let me in or will it be an eternity of uncontainable pain? Is it my cross to bear, the years will not be kind, my heinous crime.
Your inattentive attitude of unawareness, always keeps me there. I am a kite lost in the wind, blowing always further and further away, as the child aimlessly runs, calling, please, please come back to me.
It is draining me of what I am, leaving only an empty shell of myself. We have become the proverbial clique that pounds in my head; in the sea of life, we are the two ships that pass in the night.
I have written poetry for nearly 50 years. My first poem," A ticking of a Clock, was published in a women's magazine when I was 12. When my Mother passed away the poem was misplaced. I have been trying to locate it. I do other writing also.
I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will
A volcanic kiss was becoming ungreen. The shark was coming. All night it was raining. The sap was rising and love-farm was deluged. A blue moon walks on the dry eyes. Why the tears had gone to exile? A mole
The dark clouds are rolling in quickly, wild wind blows fast and fiercely Many leaves and twigs start twirling around and circling Feeling like Edgar Allen Poe, In the distance I can hear some echo’s Of many dog’s barking in
Pillage started, when there were anti-answers. The trapped light- wanted to be released, from brutalism. When you were nearly drowned, in the multitude of questions, joining the palms, you collect the moments of solitude. You drop a key in the
As the sun dives into the beguiling sky And the darkness is about to smear the vault of heaven. The mind, then wanders the lonesome places. The moment , when the mollified region is filled with despondency. The night, then