collage

The tree was tall, and grew thus so
the leaves could find the wind.
They fluttered, flitted--to and fro,
and tossed their blossoms down like snow
that summer couldn't end.

smile

A broken window shows the sun
with cracks along its rim;
I turn my head, to see instead
a ball of fire that wakes the world
with a crooked toothy grin.

a current

a current running through my head,
from ankles down to toes.
it sinks into uncharted spaces
in between my bones.

in recesses of ice and fire
where indulgences once lay--
the seven deadly sins
grow less fearsome by the day.

I come to know the sound of it
when midnight comes to call--
for without this vibration
I would never know at all.

the current running through my head
grows softer with each line;
I tune my poems, verse by verse
before I call them mine.

with another brought together
I am given right to rest
and the current running through my head
sinks down into my breast.

atop the pillar

atop the pillar stands a man,
he wears the mask of death.
he moves as if stirred by a wind
but never takes a breath.

we all stand in his shadow,
but never seem to see
the land that stretches in the sun
where we will soon be free.

the man looks down for each just once
to finally meet their eye
and in that moment, takes a breath
so we may calmly die.

I lie with sheets

I lie with sheets, but ne'er entwined,
upon them like a grave--
the heat that rises from my heart
is far too warm to save.

It catches in the rafters,
with dust and shadowed wood;
I find I can't collect it
as I feel a dreamer should.

I let it drift away instead,
balloon without a string--
My heart grows cold atop these sheets
and I can't do a thing.

there is no sun

there is no sun at all today,
slanted or otherwise--
the harsh white light of tech instead
reflects my tired eyes.

for day has not yet broken
but dawn still comes too soon.
I lose the hours that should be dreams
inside this cluttered room.

my bed knows not to call me,
too timid and afraid--
I find myself unable
to lie in what's unmade.

so hours leave me waiting
for sleep to draw me near,
but I find only silence
dares whisper in my ear.

are these tasks then so fearsome
that sleep will not intrude?
the internet must shine too bright
and sleep dares not be rude.

--
Emily Dickinson is my ever faithful inspiration. I love how her poems often don't make sense, and when people complain about that, I just want to slap them and say, "Well, duh; she didn't write them for you!" I'm a big fan of writing not for perfection or publication, but to express a thought, an image, an idea. I most often write only for myself--I find I get better poetry that way.

sunshine

she formed her arms of crystal,
a spiral collapsing sun
as a glint in the mist of daybreak
split rays beneath her fingernails;
the world through mirrors spun.

--
This makes no sense at all. But I'm tired, and haven't written a poem for nearly a month.