Genre

Words - shuffling submissively

Each phrase inching closer to a goal.

Body language beats so loudly:

pounding, thumping - rhythmically

Their hands - instruments only they know to play:

a code, a dialect: known to two.

The Genre they comply to:

A Difficult Dance

Wishful Thinking.

Thunder breaks through my windows and doors, and emits a comforting rumble.

In my mind, it's you knocking on the door, drenched, asking to come in.

Baby, You Can't.

Slice and dice me: I can't feel a thing.

Try to get close to my heart: I bet you you'll fail.

Open my eyes to a world full of illusions: promises are for the weak.

Treat me like your rag: Baby, you can't. I'm invulnerable.

Indulgences

Fresh salts dampen her cheeks.

Who's to say she's happy?

Who's to say she's sad?

She's so lost in a transition

that reeks of familiarity.

She doesn't do well,

but she fakes it so swell.

She's ready to be done.

For everything that's in the air

to be stuck in concrete.

She's wants clarity

and certainty.

But no one will indulge her in such luxury.

Love is a Loud Lie.

Passing everything, nothing important, and I find myself lost. Lost amongst a dirty sea of people that are apathetic and pathetic. I'm drowning in this mass, and nothing, not even driftwood, can make it to save me. Somehow, the surface doesn't appeal to me either. A lie that is breathed by all, spread by all, known by all as something pure plagues the stable ground, and I'd rather sink swiftly to the bottom of the apathy. I'd rather live in truth.

When The Summer Becomes The Fall

When the beach weather drops to a blandness,

When the relaxation is kicked out only to be replaced by stress,

When the summer becomes the fall, I'll be closer to winter.

A time less foreign, but much too familiar for my taste.

When the days grow shorter, I'll eschew the haste

to remember anything from a previous time.

My hair's different. My clothes are too.

Maybe even my philosophy.

When the summer becomes the fall,

that later evolves into winter

I'll be the same, only better.

8.2.10

The gown stuck on her scrapes the grey sand, and the waves scrape her. Not even the tumultuous salts of the water can distract her mind from the earlier events of the evening. Nothing can distract her.

She walks the stone cold coast with salty tears and a dress now tinted to the hues of the depths of the sea. What does the land have to offer besides pain and grief? And without thought, she is added to the ocean: lost, lonely, but with some hopeful glee.