Literary Damnation.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

Words as water. They
leak from the open mouth of
a red-crusted pipe;
leaving filthy, orange
scum rings on the brittle,
grey walls of my skull.

Thought interrupts thought;
each snide interjection
the white-hot brand upon
Redundancy's ripe rear.
Wait your turn!
Selfish girl! Selfish girl!

A flash in the pan, little
poem, little poet - that's
all you ever were and will be;
boiled potluck in
old Medusa's cauldron
full of muck and madness.

An ovum untouched,
my mind rots; the bloated
head of a putrid cow floating
along the river.
Dead water. Dead water.
This poet's done for.

Fishtail.

Relevance has little to do with it.

I wish I could put on another pair shoes.
I think mine are too comfortable. I like to look down and see my white capped sneakers. My feet feel safe wrapped up in the familiarity of the blue cotton.

But...is there such a thing as too safe?


I'm 19 now. A year older and none the wiser.


Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer.
I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.
So goodnight, dear void.

Feels Like Autumn Again.

Nothing ever felt so perfect.

Pulling on a worn, knitted beanie. 5 shades of content. maybe more- it's quite loved.
Taking your hand in mind. Cold, but okay. Refreshing, like the breeze that tangles what little of my hair it can get at.

Your sneakered feet take on the leaf litter. You are the king of the world and every satisfying crunch only confirms it.
I feel like your smile. I am the mirror image of your laugh.
I can feel my heart swelling and I love it all the more.

The small black notebok sits open on my lap as I watch you wandering away. Aimlessly- lost inside some other world you have created. The weak autumn sun falls through the diminishing trees. It illuminates you. You illuminate. The sun here is so strong- I can feel every line of you.
And my words don't make sense. The only things that make sense anymore are you,
And this beanie,
And the sound of the leaves revelling in our bliss.

Autumn.

In an impressive show of onomatopoeia
the cold has snapped once more, and
I am whole again.
The sun redeems itself, and warms to suit,
instead of to swelter.
Everything is crisp. The leaves. The air. The wind.

My mind is set racing...it wants to escape from
months of languid summer crawling. Nothing
moves in the heat.

I find that I can write again...that I can breathe again.

How I love autumn.