I recently re-discovered some poems I wrote a few years ago so I decided I'd let them see the light of day again.
The Sky is Falling
I just looked out my window and the sky
was on the ground.
The trees were all tangled into each other
like a giant spider’s web and
all the birds were stuck in the branches,
no where to fly to now
that the sky had fallen.
I had to hold my breath to keep from screaming
and when I tried to pick the sky back up,
I found my hands were paralyzed.
It seems like now there’s nothing to do
but give up.
Just sit and cry and make thousands of wishes
on the stars that are falling around me,
violently colliding with the soil at my feet
as they drop from the blank nothing
that resides above my head.
My world is ending.
Slowly.
Every second that we are away from each other
my world caves a little bit.
I need you. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Ashes On My Wrist
The broken watch
around my
wrist
will never let me know
if infinity is over
or eternity
is dead.
It can’t tell me
if I’m late or early,
or count down the seconds
of my mortal life.
But it can hold
in its reflection
the memory
of an unopened Timex
box under a dimly lit
Christmas tree,
and the boy and the girl
who stood beside it,
waiting obliviously
for Time
to tear them apart.
This Means I Love You
I see what you see when you are alone.
That heartbeat grows stronger and
your lips become wet, saliva dripping
down one drop, drop, drop at a time.
Or are those tears?
I feel what you feel when you pray.
That stuttered last word,
as your hands tremble beneath your
chin and your knees are lighter than air.
I fear what you fear in the back of your mind,
and I promise that I’ll never let that fear go.
It is our common ground,
it is our breaking point.
Dry
Ninety degrees
Fahrenheit.
Nothing makes sense
in the heat glazed skies
but we look up
anyway,
hoping to see
a cloud.
A promise of water.
Insanity
is attempting the same thing
over and over,
expecting different results.
Every few seconds
we lift our chins,
staring longingly into
the blue oblivion.
No clouds turn up.
Nor will they.
But we continue to search,
continue to squint our
dry eyes toward the sky
because what is insanity
if not the hope we depend upon
to stay alive?
