Do you know

how much you make me smile?

Friends
Music
Laughter

Please, don't give up yet. The moment that you give up is the moment that I have no choice but to follow you that way.

Scissors

In a soft love’s sandpaper hand,
walk moving patiently, spider.
Over tender steadfast pulses,
push on- the task of sleepless feet
to the human shores
of a ripening red swell.
Eightfold (be watching, spider)
for what are now your Earth’s red waters,
those that bring you ever gazing
up to the night’s splendor
dancing upon her nature’s
pale mask of unchangeable snow.
Be still; be gentle, spider,
of the bright star
rounded on her pillowed cheek;
a lone bygone song
for you fallen from her fair lips.
I see your adoration for her,
and it will live on
with every one of her breaths
in my memory of the longlegs;
the breath that would take you,
swooning and poised
on her exhalation,
to your death.

Stalkerisms

No wonder it takes me forever to read books at school. It's probably the fact that I forget the book in a basket of laundry at home and am only left with a lined notebook and this to do.
Anywho. At least I'm getting good at people sitting in desks...

Everyone tells how much you smile towards me, but does anyone realize that I do the same thing about you, too?

Undone Marigold

Do you know companions?
A father, my father,
had summoned within me
a raised child's curiosity
out of dying and surviving.
Earth was master of us,
save for the terror
of the end of summer.
Speak not of the day
running with failing lights!
I know the catching
of the stars peeking at twilight
close to the opposite horizon.
Enough of the dirt sunk
under Father's raw bare feet
that I could perceive the air
like a flower down my spine
and hear the crack of expanded ribs.
Now I spin around, thinking
to call to my father
from where I can see the summer ants,
because unless he can see
how they will go on not knowing time,
I'll laugh in the dying summer
by myself.

The dying world, the death, the birthing world, the birthed.

I can never wait for the seasons to change. Now summer transitioning into autumn, and I don’t think that October could come quickly enough. Then as the leaves are all in the streets crunching beneath the passerby’s feet, I’ll be sitting on the curb and looking at the sky willing it to snow. Once January comes, I’ll wait to see the flowers poking up out of the soil moist from the slushy melt. When May comes, I’ll wait for the warm rain that will fill the gutters to the brim, and my shoes. And then by August I’ll be back where I am now, waiting for the wind to knock the branches bare.

"You never have a final draft."

The train came and left four minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago...

How do I know that you'll ever show up? They all say, "forget him, isn't it sad?" And yes, it is. Worse even the silence. To think that you've never been there, and that those footprints painted on the ground are for a ghost.
Four minutes and fifty-eight.

Blind Palms and Paralyzed Eyes

I am Brahm's Lullaby,
sung each night with made-up verses
and a prayer for safety and happiness.
I will be the card of faces,
which upon the palm of seven names
is my future of determination.
I want to be the wind
through a thick-trunked oak.
The force only ends at the end of rain forever.
I used to be a cardboard box,
the likes of which are anything
within the first hour on my side.
I let go of the number twelve,
forced to by the nods
of those who have already lost their wonder
I've forgotten the cars passing
by the circle of black pavement;
cold metal with warm faces.
I remember the ceramic bowl,
the blue stripe
where the milk level once was.

Draft two, creative writing assignment number one. Creative writing is a hard class. o.o