Impulse


My uninspired attempts at masterpiece
sear the tips of my fingers that charcoal infinitely 
onto innocent paper, scarring its symmetry with
coarse words whose sounds scrape, strangely
unaware of their existence, against each other
etching impulse into, my, reality
that of imitation mass produced 
norms that confound the essence of  life. 

Fabric


If I was cut from a different cloth
a silk that could bend but not break,
finely woven with hand-me-down threads
actively aging, blended colors and adorned
by frayed ends breathing off small strands
of personality distinguishing my
quilted spirits from one another,
perhaps cloth covers would be
a relief before a means to disappear
unevenly, from the world.