Make Your Sounds!.txt

Make your sounds!
Let me play a word
Off the noise
You’ve made and heard!;
Though a thousand
Times repeated,
There is much
Vocabulary to proceed
Until the throat is dry
Or eyes stay shut one
More minute than should be;
Ah!, what sanctuary!
Doot-da-aaah-doot.

maybe that’s the hardest part

is it worth
the time to be
everything to everyone
but me?

i never saw myself
as anything more than
some writer you learned of
long after i ‘d expired.

maybe that’s the hardest part
of knowing/not whether you’
ll see these words some day far
or they’ll be recounted at gravesite
and forgotten soon after, like
a tombstone’s sentence and time’s
embrace, a dissipation of
all that once existed, seen
, but memory is only so that
even it gives in when loosened
hold, holding fast, slows.

By The Water.txt

I can just imagine:

Singing the same song, two-three
Times a week, wailing away in
Practice between performances;
And all over someone that still
Matters when counting blessings
And thinking of what once was;
A sad song being lived by a singer
Who can’t forget the lyrics, no.

Follies

She looks right through
Whatever facade I use
To hide a lack of preparation.

But, you learn by action
And never know until
She looks right through you.

I want to end there, but
Some force calls me
To be righteous for a change.

Without a chance to be
More than me, I
Lie awake and seem to fall.

When in spiraled dream,
I slide amongst rain,
Seeing the world tipsy-crazy.

I can’t stop thinking of that night
We danced amongst the dishes
And used the kitchen as a ballroom;
A couple twirls and attempted dips
Bringing the freshness of your smile
To our feet, firmly planted while
Floating on a tiled floor that didn’t
Know it’d see the laughter of dancers,
Or their follies.

Friday.txt

I’m the type to work on Friday
Before Monday morning comes/
That way of thinking lends a
Way of glossing over the troubles
Leading to the perfect day, Fri-day/
And I begin to look back on
all the hours bringing me to
Here/there/then, when I
Rested amongst the shades
Of leaves, leaving me to speak
With the humble bee, and they whose
Homes, tree’, made me sing;
I followed the breeze to turn and
Help those in need, or provide
A simple acknowledging
Of they who surround me without
Knowing me or Who brought me
Here, Friday.

Monday Morning Setbacks

Where you are / Ticks

How many times,
How many ways
Must I tell you
Before you stay?

A hundred years from now,
Whether we prolong life
Or continue to die, somehow
I will be where you are.
Led by breathing, my presence, I,
Will find a way to be anywhere–
Where you are.

Brought on by fitting bursts of madness,
His hands shake as he walks, cold
In an otherwise sunny atmosphere.
Eyes, wound like clock, tick his steps
To see where someone with no one around
Goes to be alone.