Especially Caffeinated Mornings

I am running out of ways to say this, but you were in my dreams again.

Wanted Posters Everywhere

In the silence all I hear

is the steady hum of an

unnecessary air conditioner

in the middle of our coldest

winter yet.


And the steady but melodic

click clack of a keyboard

as my laptop gently rises

and falls with the pressure

of each key and the breathing

of me.


I guess that really isn't silence,

after all, but it should be

when you are used to people

fighting in the background

or music blaring with

lost hope.


And I read what so many others

write, commenting to the best

of my ability, only something

keeps getting in

my way.


Why can't I be as great as them

and where did all of my inspiration

run off to this time. Am I all alone

or is it coming back

someday?


So in this stillness that is not

so still and the silence that

is actually quite noisy

for some


I am searching for my muse

wondering where she could

have gone.


If you see her walking down

the street or passing through

your dreams would it be too

much of me to ask you

to send her back

my way?

Another Long-Distance Exorcism

You hid the letter thinking the hardly ripped envelope would off-put wandering eyes. Hoping things would be easier as they settled within your occupied heart.

Little did you know, the battle began when you left the letter opener on the dining room table. Everyone knew something was up when you didn't turn up to announce how things were going.

So you holed up in your room painting by candle light, knowing you'd be better for it in the morning when no one else saw the tear stains dying the light behind your eyes. Don't worry, tomorrow will be better. 

DIzzy Up the Girl

So I have a problem, and I am going to admit it

across these wires and into these pages of pulp

and regret, of memories and dreams, anyway,


I guess it's time for me to quit

dragging these goddamn feet of mine

and just come out with it already.


So here it goes, now that I've got your attention,

both fully and half-heartedly, I have a problem


where if what I am writing cannot

be dedicated to someone or help another

feel better about themselves or a pain

plaguing them as it once plagued me, then


I feel as though I should not write at all.


So when I miss the calming feel of ink

on my skin as it also courses through my veins

and when I miss the cruel yet friendly laughter

of the page I reach out to those I met during

our darkest hours. It is a faulty attempt to

cleanse the ache that one of us is bound to hold

within our soul far too tightly for help to enter.


Which makes it sound as though

I'm using you love, but this is not the case -


you are simply a muse I cannot give up.

You are a strawberry I can neither pick

or dip in chocolate after the bottle of wine

has been totally drained by the both of us.


You are too many untitled pieces and

a drawer full of letters I can't bring

myself to send until after your address

changes for the hundredth time this year.


And now that I've told the whole world

of my problem, my addiction, my shame,


I hope you can forgive me for making it sound

as though I've used you all these years


just to cry enough for my heart

to see clearly again -


just for my blood to return

to these veins of mine

and purge some of this

excess ink building up


til the point of maximum


dizziness.

Visiting the Darkside

I don't want to know anymore angels,

I'm through with writing ballads

about heaven just to be forgotten.

And wishes on stars stopped

coming true way too long ago.


Next time send God himself for a chat.


It'll be one for the history books.


Or you could have me befriend demons

that just can't die instead. The kind that

promise you the world but only manage

to leave you presents of dead things

and wilted flowers by the door.

Whispers and Wind

I would like you to know that you will not be alone in this. Ever again. 

Unmanageable Mana

This madness is malaise malapropism

malfunctioning non-malevolently

and my malignant mind just can't

manage a malnutritioned soul


as well as a homeless poet

trapped within the helpless confines

of her own thoughts. Indeed -

it's a tragedy the likes of Shakespeare

wouldn't even dare to touch because

the melodrama of my "mal"crazed mind

as I fall even more deeply in love

with a mere dictionary


is far too much for anyone

to understand sanely.

Homework assignment for my English class. He took an outdated dictionary and tore a page out for each of us and said our homework assignment was to make something out of the page or be inspired by the page. Mine was obviously a page of M words.


Some kids drew definitions of words on the page, others wrote black out poetry, one even made origami out of his page. It was an awesome assignment.

Witnessed and Remembered

Beaten by the toaster for a failed test wasn't a joke and the warmth of your heart was really someone burning your soul alive at the stake. Sorry doesn't mean shit, but I'm so sorry I couldn't see what was really going on when I had the chance. 

Circles not Bee Lines Away

If this one is dedicated to you as well, then so be it. 

Still Up to Interpretation

Starling songs cradle unborn stars

the way your gypsy mother did for you -

I hope she kept you as warm

as you deserve. Cool milk and fresh cookies


promise comfort as we stand in

the doorway much like angels resting

in the pews of a service-less stained glass

church in someone's greatest time of need.


Roses unfurl as daisies bloom,

you're never going to see anything so beautiful

until you find your way back here to me -

I planted seeds of hope in my heart


as a present intended


for you. . .