Waltzing in a whirl wondering when I will feel the warmth again. Dancing in circles desperate for more, a deeper feeling, more meaning of being.
Lost and alone, you stand there, but where is our world? I can’t find you so lost in mine, in and out of consciousness, barely aware, mind confined, to the place hide in.
So scared you’re not here. Have we have grown apart and lost it? I hunger for the love we had, I want you in my bed, I want to know us again.
repost from blastedgoat
I was playing around with a few lines I found in an otherwise blank document. I was taking notes on a conversation I had with a poet friend of mine named David. All I typed was “poets listen to long playing records of words” and “happiness kills creativity.” Enjoy and look for some edits more than likely… I must like you all, you are seeing my first draft!
“Happiness kills creativity,” he claimed.
I never got the point of using said
when one wishes to be more specific,
be more specific.
Don’t get long-winded,
forgetting your point
in the first place.
Poets listen to long playing records
filled solely with words,
no notes, except
the long pauses.
Slithering s’s complement
that constant cadence
of c’s and k’s.
To say nothing of the nuance
of n’s softening her hard consonants.
She never said a word after that.
When you want to be more specific,
be more specific
She doesn’t utter a word,
but they flow from her clicking fingers, tonight.
based on a conversation quite a long time ago with DRC.
A yellow-striped Tamagotchi toy cat
rests on a windowsill.
She does not move.
She does not sniff the cold metallic air…
