SurRouNd

when I was young
Colors had Faces
letters had genDers
And spoons
Never got along with the forks

now
Now my emotions
Have feelings too
And when my pen
spills out
numbers
they tell me their life stories

4
Is my favorite number
Because she knows what it is like
To be told who she is
And 9
Will always be my CAMpfire villain
My water bottle Is a she
And she
Does not much care for tulips or birds
My pillow
Is a diVa
Who never gets her way

Months are Never just Days
days
Are slightly more than just dates
And when I spell out their names
Their letters greet each other i n d i v i d u a l l y
Before becoming the word as a whole

So

sO
So

So who am I to say I am never Alone
When every pEtal on my bedspread
Never Fails
To welcome me home

Artist's Soul

I do Not own
my Artist soul
because that would mean
She does what i want

no One owns
my artist Soul
and not even she
can decide what to think

but we are Grateful
to Be together
for I Anchor
her wanderings 
a n d she
loose ns the Bond
that tethers us Both
to mereLY Existing

Rhythmic Repetition is Really Rather Revealing

repetition scares me
it scares me
scares
me
repetition scares me

when I repeat my letters
I worry
worry
that some will find me simple
simple

when I say what I mean
too many times
when I say
when I say
when I say
my words too many times
an abyss opens up
opens up
and it screams
it screams my words back at me

What do I do
with my repeating letters
where do I put
the overused
overexposed
syllables on my tongue
how do I console
my depreciating
punctuation
how
how do I stop the declining value of my soul

There is a word market
smelling
of paper and paste
ringing
ringing ringing ringing
with pages turning and covers singing
a stall of phrases
and a vendor for articulation

I stand on the corner
pen in hand
heart
in
my
ears
and I write
with curling lines
words that mean things
in another's eyes
I write
and I write
and I write
until these ink and paper letters
have a twin sibling each
until
each line
is identical to another
until one is the same as the other and another is a brother to a word that could be his mother and they are all being smothered by a repeat performance of one more

"words!" I cry, "words for sale!"
and in a basket at my feet, there are a dozen price tags each to words that are all the same
dollars for some and cents for most
and some
many
all
do not have a price
because I cradled them gently
and whispered their worth
where only they could hear

"words words words words words words to good homes!
words for you to sing
and words for you to love
and words
words
words
for evenings spent alone
and dinners eaten in silence
and moments eternities instances when your thoughts are too loud!"

I pitch my sales
and shout my deals
and the words in the basket
at my feet
smile sweetly
and know
that they already have a home
and that it is with me

because
I love my repeating words
that I handled with care
when I placed them there
in the basket that shows no prejudice to the spares
they are my words
I love them
and they
love
me

Graveyard- Writing Experiment

A graveyard.

A tombstone.

A crow.

Death. Memory. Life.

Mist. Curling, swirling mist. Laughing, whispering. Come come come. 

Rustling. Swaying. Leaves grass flowers bugs bees spiders trees. Creeping crawling fluttering flying.

Rolling, sliding, glassy, smooth. Rough, jagged, worn.

Figures.

Shadows.

Laughter.

Grief. Absence.

madness

Walk, glide, run, sprint, hop skip.

st o p

b r ea th e

live 

die

questions answers pain joy loss hurt

g oo

   d

b y e