Poetry
I usually like writing,
But I don’t like writing poems.
The problem with poems, I think
is that they are entirely too
honest.
Confusion
Those first words,
Simple, at first, then more,
Some thick, demanding attention,
Others leaning into the touch of another but never
quite
meeting.
All swirling, moving,
Losing all meaning the longer I
Watch time tick on,
Second by second,
Minute by minute,
Tick, tick, tick, a g o n i z i n g l y s l o w, then,
in a blink,
over,
Nothing left but a
Blank set of pages, but when you look,
There are words, so many words,
Thick words on thin paper,
Clumsy fingers fumbling to find something,
anything,
to explain it.
Words hard and
Soft, gentle, beckoning,
But smothering,
Like the lie of a whispered ‘I love you’,
All smiles,
And comfort,
And suddenly,
gone.
Winter
In the cold and white
a dead angel lies in snow
its body long gone
Why are you so Angry?
Why
are you
so
Angry?
Why do you care
if I like boys
or girls
or neither
or both?
Why does it matter
if I want to be called she
or he
Or they?
Why
are you
so
angry?
Does it affect you
if I wear my hair
short
or long?
How will it hurt you
if I dress up
and wear makeup
then stay inside and play games?
Why
are you
so
angry?
I just
don’t
get it.
I’m the one who should be angry
that you don’t want me
to be me.