Blind stumbles numb my hands
smacking into half-painted walls
leaving smudged reminders, of where
I am or was but exuding no direction,
my fingers point up and left right,
with no care for etiquette riddling to each
onlooker my worries; what will become of a
man who feels lost in his home.
It’s raining again,
and my mind fixates on
the curious raindrops peeking too far
and falling in the midday sun,
colliding onto the asphalt
dotting it with wet reminders of chance
and landing on you,
highlighting your skin with a shimmer of
rainbow inducing magic
leaving no room in my mind
to think about anything else but
how the raindrops can occupy
but I cannot enter your thoughts.
whether a forethought allows
greater creation or if,
novelty of unknown forces
the new and best out of us as writers.
Does premeditation create
a more meaningful experience
as it allows the author to present
his words cut to a defined script.
Or does free form writing
which flows from the fingers
into an undefined medium enjoy
more, simply through its creative process.
Doubt infests like a weed
in the mind’s garden,
flowers that used to smell sweet
suddenly mutate into Venus fly traps,
bees once pollinating now sting,
song birds depart and vultures arrive. Waiting.
That idyllic little red bench now overgrown,
ridden with thorny scratchy things
I can’t bear to sit and linger there any longer,
I must leave this place.
I don’t understand it and I am frightened by it,
it’s sad when the Clock runs out on beauty.
The way you took her was bitter, cruel and unwise
I will run from you forever, into the deep woods
jumping at every shadow,
worried you have found me again.
Placid waters reflect
my changing emotions clearly
yet mistake my
expressions to be how I
Only a table away from
each other our eyes
cannot see straight
I look again
into your glass,
ice breaks up your face
clouding my vision
as we sit
unsure how each other
feel beneath placid reflections.