“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”
—
Mr. Knightley
Emma by Jane Austen
November 2010
10 posts
bored in school... and so i write
i am torn a thousand ways.
stretched thin… barely a membrane.
a shadow of myself.
hardly alive, no longer fighting, growing wan.
this one, that one;
past, present, future;
and i, lodged in no man’s land
waiting for a tug
in any one direction
or else… to be out out of my misery.
instead, they all whisper in my ear,
their words vague, breathy nothings,
incomprehensible in the vast abyss-
this blackest of chasms that is my head.
SILENCE, SILENCE
… what claim have any of you
on me… my heart, my soul,
my peace of mind?
none.
i belong to no one.
no juncture in time, no inkling of a concept, no man.
leave me be.
and if you shall not…
i’ll simply walk away.
guess this means
goodbye.
poem (up there)
a taste of your smile
bones shaking
eyes sinking
pen the horizon
extra large sharpie, super
super bold
warm and cold
a telephone line
and a shimmering piece of sky
fly
fly away
my songbird of glass
“Any fool can make a rule, and any fool will mind it.”
—Henry David Thoreau
nyctophobia
summer nights in carbondale
with that caramel air- sticky thick and far too sweet.
ears throbbing a thund’rous beat.
darkness thickens, paralyzing
crickets chirping, mesmerizing
they play a modest symphony
a simple kind of melancholy
accompanied by your drowsy humming,
my fingers tentatively strumming
upon your window sill,
turned golden by the lone streetlight.
to me, the world is black and white.
night stretches an eternity,
but finally i fall asleep.
by morning i’ll forget these tears,
the wide-eyed, quiet fear,
so far from home,
i’m not alone…
that is-
until night falls once more.
