Alternate

in our secret lives we sit, opposites
of ourselves, sighing and saying things
like, "No no no,
you've got it all wrong-
it's my turn this time, let me try!"
and so we let go.
there is a boy with light blue
hair and a lip ring- he smokes
and i can smell it when everything
is quiet and we're thinking,
"life is strange, so let's follow suit."





I'm not going to lie... I still can't write.
But my sketchbook is getting some use, so yay.
That's actually how this came to mind-
I keep drawing this kid. He needs a name.

Backspace

Backspace, hold, type.
Backspace, hold, stare.
The page glows white like
a winter landscape,
cold and bare-
it offers no ideas,
and no sympathy. I close
the program and my eyes,
lean back, and sigh. My mind
stays empty this time.







I'm not happy with what I've been writing, and that frustration is just making things harder.

Teeth

sharp teeth of doubt and second-guessing
press like a gentle reminder against
the tender skin of my neck-
"beware," they say, "of vanity and pride"
and i may or may not be in danger of falling
(but not from so high a place that
it will hurt any more than the last time).
there is a gnawing in my belly
and an aching in my thighs;
they speak of determination,
the stubborn tunnel-vision
that will get me to the end.
i know that i will get there, but
i just don't know when.







I'm pretty sure that I am at least partly aware of what this is even about. Yeah, it's one of those.

Truth

It was in the moment between
dreaming and sleep,
and I still felt
his body heat
spreading
across my side.
In dreams his face
is more real, but reality
is far more kind-
this world, at least
is not so bold a lie.







RAGE.
It wasn't even one dream, either. It was one of those deals where I woke up, thought, "Well this sucks," went back to sleep, and had four more dreams with this co-star.
My subconcious hates me, I think.