Rush

The doors are different.

Yet, they are the same.

I walk on.

And on.

 

I knock on each one.

No answer.

The light used to rush out of the windows.

You used to be there.

 

Even the wind and cars race past me.

Your smile made my life.

Why do I go on?

My world is dark.

 

You probably have no idea.

I will collapse,

from wandering the road

and you will go home.

 

Beautiful

You are beautiful.

You are not beautiful enough.

Up.

Then down.

I want you to think that I am beautiful.

You see a surface that is rough.

Something that is covered in cracks,

that makes you frown.

What do you want?

Should I live for myself or be tough

and emulate what you desire?

Which is more important?

I want you, but I want myself, too.

Kiss me.

Kill me.

You already have.

My Cup of Tea

I was making a cup of tea.

You came around the corner,

when I looked out the window, you were all I could see.

My heart instantly felt warmer.

You seemed busy,

hunting for somebody, or something.

I stood there breathlessly

trying to move, but, nothing.

Despite your impending obligations,

you stopped, and saw me.

Without hesitations,

you opened the door, and touched your keys.

Without words, you grinned,

and took a pen and piece of paper,

off the counter, and you penned.

Nothing else was said, until later.

Whenever I have a really long day at work, I like to go to the bar and get something to calm my nerves.  You know, unwind just a little bit.  From a long, and I mean freaking long day.  I feel like it’s worth it to end up on the floor the next morning, somewhere, who knows where, after doing who knows what, for who knows how long, and with God only knows who.

I type all day long as a secretary for a newspaper, a smaller one, but not sleazy if that’s what you were going for.  I take calls and type out stories for the people in the back to perfect.  They’re always about what usually goes on at night after the beacon of daylight goes out and people feel like they won’t be responsible for what idiocy they take part in.  But, life lesson doll face, you will most likely always come to terms with what you don’t even remember from the night before.

I came with this guy who has been bugging me for weeks about going out to get a drink with him.  I don’t particularly like him, but I thought, you know, what they hey, I’ll get free alcohol out of it.  Which is hard to find these days, and if you can find it, nobody wants to know what you did for it and they will pay anything for it.

He has slicked back hair, pants that are too baggy, and a walk and smile as slick as the aforementioned locks.  He’s one of those guys who’s like a bee always going around to every flower and asking a suggestive how do you do with a charming gaze.  Right now, I am sitting here with a shot of Jack and I am not sure which one I am on or how many that I have had, but it must be a lot because I haven’t kept up with which girl he is trying to entertain with jokes at this moment.

The Bartender keeps giving me a funny look.  If he gives me any talk about my bangs I am going to kill my hairdresser.  I knew they were too short.  I don’t care about the current look.  I try to look busy with my drink, because clearly it’s the only company I’ll be having tonight.  I drink the last little bit and the bartender quickly saunters over to refill it.

“Ma’am, I noticed that you were looking lonely.”

“I have a date he just seems to be forgetting who he came with.”

He gives a sympathetic expression and fills the glass with ice and more liquid without asking me to pay.

“You don’t need him.”  He says.

“I know.  Didn’t want to go out with him, just wanted him to finally leave me alone.”  I reply.

“Just let me know if you need anything.”

He could tell that I really didn’t want to talk.

So, I looked around for my date and I couldn’t find him.  I decided to people watch for a bit to pass the time.  You can always tell the girls that try too hard.  Their skirts are just a little too high and their makeups just a little too thick to be innocent.  They hang over everything, walls, chairs, words, men.  The drunks fall asleep wherever they are sitting and are usually alone.  So sad, but true.  The under agers are always the funniest to watch because they look like deer in headlights wandering around like they know they will get caught.  Nobody really cares anymore though.

I look down at my watch and it is almost closing time and there is still no sign of the guy.  I take my last drink and set it down.  I circle my finger around the rim a couple of times and then reach in my purse to gather up my money for my countless amount of drinks.  A hand is placed on top of mine.

“It’s all on the house.”

I look up to see the bartender with a warm grin on his face.

“Thank you.”  I stammer.

He draws back his hand and looks at me for a while and says, “You know, I can walk you home if you would like.”

“No, no, I am fine.”

“I just don’t want you to be out this late.  By yourself.”

“Just rub it in why don’t you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I was rude…I’m sorry, I am just tired.  Of everything, especially men, like him anyway.”

“Did you recently break up with somebody?”  He says as he wipes down the bar and some cups.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.  He was a real putz.”

He laughed.  And said, “Well, would you mind if a real gentleman, such as myself, took you out for some coffee?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.  There’s this little diner that should still be open.”

“Okay.  But, I’ll pay.”

“No. I insist.”

“Are you sure?  Don’t be a hero.”

He laughed again.  “Positive.”

“Well, okay.”

My Red Umbrella

I only pick it up when it rains.

Now every day is just the same.

My red umbrella accompanies me

wherever I go, ‘Cause I know,

You won’t be there anymore.

My tears hit the floor.

I never put it down

for the clouds surround.

The clouds are where you used to be.

They are the only ones that comfort me.

You may be on cloud nine, but here

they just, confine.

Tell me what it’s like.

To love life.

‘Cause I might just drown

before anyone, gets to me in time.

What am I?

What am I?

Am I but only a reflection

of you?  The only outline

of me is your rejection.

Everything that I am disappeared

when you came into my life.

Like a pleasant disruption you dared

to change all that like.

Why then do you go away?

Is this a game and do you enjoy

what confusion you give to me every day?

I just want to bring both of us joy.

My appearance is faded

because you took the light of life from

me.  I remain dumbstruck and jaded,

just an empty shell, feeling so dumb.

Ants

I go to get some

Cheerios, the ants

have already

made reservations.

They have found

the only treasure

in this house.

The O’s look like hugs.

The rest of the

pantry is empty

with only a few

cobwebs to decorate.

The house, pantry,

my heart, and the ants’ stomachs

all share one trait,

near emptiness.

Your Eyes

They draw me in,

I, reluctant to the

Constant current,

Always pulling.

I cannot stay

for long and

wear out my

welcome.

Crystals do not

interest me the same.

They play on

Others’ emotions.

Cerulean,

Indigo,

Cyan,

Away I go.

My Broken Bones

My broken bones are not

so conventional in representation.

You probably lack knowledge of the treatment

or, maybe you are “perfect” in that way as well, I without amazement.

They poke my insides

trying to get out to see you.

Like my words that are scared

and retreat from your glare.

They used to be straight and orderly

until your touch instantly shattered them.

The pain was supposed to be there, yet

the break, was an eerie relief from fret.

Only set them right again

if you are willing to stay here.

If you leave, the fractures will be

the sole reminders of you for me.

My Pencil.

Take my pencil, but not away from

the sheath of my hand.  Instead summon

its attention and guide both with your

hand toward the correct path.

It is bleeding black and running franticly

across the page wondering where pretty

pen went.  Because his life simply can’t go

on without his love.

You are my pencil because you always

seem to be able to erase my mistakes of the days.

However, I leak ink at night due to my

replacement by another.

Be my artist, take my hand in doing so.

I feel that when I am around you I can let my ink flow,

together, we can complete whatever task that we

set out to do.  And make a Masterpiece out of life.

Your Hands

Tough as leather, yet

soft against mine.

Intriguingly delicate,

as ours intertwine.

Shadows carefully fill

the tiny crevices.

I know you will

let me trace the edges.

The dirt of the day

shows determination.

Swirls play in a way

on top of the outer stratum.

My frigidity is what

their warmness calms.

You can put words together, but

I just want the embracing of our palms.

Dance.

Dance with me, because you can

and because I can.  Forget the world,

for you can always return.  The land

and I are your oyster, considering that you are my pearl.

Take my hand in yours as if you mean it.

Do not be afraid to squeeze what you

would think is too hard.  Your grip is the only fit

that keeps my fingers wanting to continue true.

Pull me close, as near as possible

so that I might forget my necessary departure.

Hold me as if I were your anchor responsible

for allowing you to stay near shore.

You have to go back to her, I know that, I do.

Have mercy, in giving me just a short

amount of your time.  Give me a cue

when it is time to bring me back to my realistic court.

Melodic

Your voice is melodic,

the words, they frolic.

Chasing the mundane reality

away from me, if only rarely it be.

Low and soothing to my ears,

sort of like a bee, except there’s no fear.

With a touch of Southern drawl, but not

so thick and sugary sweet to be lacking thought.

Speak to me, forever, even if it is about what

seems to be nothing important.  Your mind is never in a rut

because your ideas constantly swim down to

your mouth from the river of intelligence, in your brain it runs through.

Like honey, it coats everything with a cloying drip,

distracting me from the real point, giving my heart a skip.

Pour it on me so that it will seep into my head right

into my eyes, so that it will cause me to see everything in your amber light.

Blue Eyes

Crystal clear like
water that laps
at my toes on a
bright summer day.

I go in to my
ankles despite
my better judgment.
You are unrelenting.

I am in far too deep
now.  There is no
going back, which you
know silently.

The sea threatens my
ability to express
feelings to anyone.
But I am happy.

The Wedding Dress

White cascading down
her, shielding her from
the rest of the world
like a gift from angels.

In a somewhat
trance-like state
she drifts down the
aisle to her other refuge.

Her train symbolizes
what and who she
has left behind to
follow the significant.

Her face remains
covered to save
beauty for the one
who lifts the veil.

Peace

Froth dances at my feet.  The sunshine rains down on me from above, penetrating every pore.  I

inch closer and closer to the awaiting bed of blue restlessness desiring to embrace me.

Finally, I give in.  I curve my figure midair, and descend into the body.

My worries are left behind, above me, for others to toil with.

This is my home.  The other was a temporary phase.

Down here, one is not judged, but loved.

It is a silent, understanding adoration.

I feel all of the different textures.

Rough, smooth, gritty, lumpy.

My body wants oxygen.

My mind is reluctant.

They cannot agree.

Air gives up.

I let go.

She

Who is she?
Is she meeting someone?
She sips her coffee quietly
As if she wants to run.

Where is she from?
No one knows the answer.
Everyday she comes.
No one speaks to her.

Why is she here?
Maybe to meet some friends.
But what has she to fear?
Her temperament slowly descends.

When will she leave?
Perhaps when she finds her purpose.
She needs to be free.
Quietly she exits.

The Corridor

I met you in the corridor.

Passing without spoken word.

Averting eyes to avoid war.

Your steps were those of a bird.

A smile falls on my face.

Pain twinges my heart.

Where is my place?

From you I feel so far.

Could things have changed?

Do you want to try again?

I still have that picture frame.

I still hold you within.

Please come back to me.

What is the rush for?

I need us to be.

I met you in the corridor.

Courage For A Cookie

Billows of steam dance off of the tops of warm oatmeal raisin cookies that recently arrived from their cocoon that guided them through the metamorphosis from the basic baking elements to the melody that a tall glass of milk harmonizes with.  The smell sweeps through the house delighting every nose in its path.  These cookies are not normal cookies by any means.  The mother of some very busy children put herself to work in the kitchen in order to craft her dessert to welcome them home from their journeys.  After she finishes with her labor of love, she realizes that there is no more milk, so she dashes from the house and off to the supermarket before the children come home to find their surprise.

In a small crevice of the kitchen wall behind the china cabinet, a small, gray mouse stirs.  Enticed by the aroma, he pokes his head out of his home and around the corner of the woodwork of the cabinet to see the treasures perched on top of the White Mountain high above where he gazed.  He quietly considered the risks of going after his new desire.  Ultimately, the temptation overtook his will and he started forward toward his goal.

He sauntered across the cold hardwood floor, unsure that he was completely alone.  He peers around each corner and holds his breath, breathing only when it was absolutely necessary.  After crossing the gleaming amber surface with exacted precision, the tiny mouse slowly raises his head to look at what is ahead.  Shiny knobs covering even more wood protruded from the side of the mountain he was going to have to inevitably climb.  Looking around for something to give himself a boost up to his endeavor, he found that the trash can help him with his predicament.  He takes a deep breath and runs and leaps onto the pedal of the trash can which flings him up high enough to grip a nearby knob.  After letting out a particularly curt sigh, he starts swinging himself from knob to knob until he grasps the corner of the Kitchen Kilimanjaro.  The miniscule mouse struggles his way to a prostrate position and puffs out his chest triumphantly.  He performs his obligatory victory dance and feels quite proud of himself.  He struts over to the oatmeal raisin cookies that have been patiently waiting on him and proceeds to devour the most appetizing looking morsel of the bunch.

The experience is beautiful, just as he expected.  The raisins are plump and tender while the surrounding sea of crisp cookie offers a complimenting crunch.  The little mouse is so overwhelmed with joy, he lounges back in ecstasy.  The door slams.  The mouse’s eyes pop open.  His crumbs drop.  Drop.  His heart and stomach follow suit.  “How do I get down?” contemplates the mouse.