This page is a work in progress!
“Show, don’t tell”, as they say. Here is a collection of random stuff about me that keeps growing. Memories, images, poems, other vaguely meaningful objects.
In my senior year of high school, a friend told me I was boring. She drew me this.
Fickle things, they are.
When left alone they will have your head,
a chorus, electrons; your soul, otherwise.
Little things, they are.
So small indeed to feel you so dead,
a longing; creating for more, unrealized.
Giant things, they are.
So mountainously to overwhelm,
a paradox, so subtle, so well disguised.
Quiet things, they are.
Ever sneaking, seeking to disclose
a secret that you hide because it is wild.
Gentle things, they are.
Leading you from comfort, not others,
a selfishness, makes you too selfless and mild.
Vile things, they are!
Away with them and find you some peace,
a quiet, no worries, like when you were a child.
These Things They Are
Seconds
I’ve got a problem.
Exponential
There is potential but it’s problematic.
Though emphatic: an attic
I’m an addict, an attic
an addict I say.
Right gets more wrong by the day.
Out go the candles out go the candles
out go the candles
Smoke rings strangling!
Large flames mangling
the stairs,
disappearing in pairs! fours!
Forget it, forgot.
Fret not.
Reform tomorrow.
Sorry Ms Morrow
SORRY Ms Morrow!
I’m late because I BORROW
Joy is a pain and clean is a stain.
It’s a catch-22 I can work my way through.
Happy holds a smile
and the truth is denial
A computer has a file
but a flame ain’t no game.
It’s awful, it’s fruitless
I’m absolutely truthless
I’m well aware
a flame ain’t no game
Evil’s my aim
forever the same
I was in a musical. My solo was Pinball Wizard. There was blood on my guitar.
Window
She looks from the window,
Though miles away I can see the expression clearly on her face.
I stared at that window,
Wondering why I don’t dare stray from my gracefully occupied space.
A startling case,
Unclear motives, a star-spangled gaze
All the right laughs on all the wrong days.
A mouse in a maze,
Wandered in circles for seven days
At the Earle, I’ve too many stays.
She courts me through pardon,
Though curious still is the swallowing of the most bitter of pills.
We stand in the garden,
We would have embraced if only the two of us had twice of the wills.
My inhibition.
Systems broken, more than malfunction
Sparks fly away without solution.
I have young wisdom,
Eyes see through sorrowful pollution
Please hurry in, un-realization.