Dry

crossing the field I’m feeling
to avoid the snow crust yielding
softly stepping

I can’t help but think
it’s like what you’ve been doing
deftly stepping

and in times like these, you know they say
you can’t always have things go your way
and so this I ask you:
do you want me to love you?

crossing the field I’m almost there
tiptoeing across this icy air
thinking of leaving

I can’t help but think
you’re already inside me
barely breathing

and in times like these, you know they say
you can’t always have things go your way
and so I must ask you:
do you want me to love you?
do you want me to still love you?

let me come home dry, love
let me come home dry

        

          

Copyright L.M. 2008.

Slate Grays

my hands are dry and rough from working
my eyes are small and used to squinting
my stature average, verging on petite
I have thin skin and veiny feet
my complexion’s poor, my tone is pale
genes say my bones will be quite frail
I have no nails as they are weak
my voice is too high when I speak
my mother thinks my hair’s too long
I think all compliments are wrong
I’m a sceptic, sometimes too much so
though I try to be fair to friend and foe
my opinions strong, my manner shy
in public you’ll never see me cry
in private I keep emotions tame
my anxiety has that cause to blame
I hate to shop, but buy a lot
no place could ever be too hot
I dislike snow, I dislike cold
I’m terrified of getting old
I have good friends who understand
I’m always later than I plan
I’m sensitive, and feel more pain
than I let off, or care to explain
I never intentionally drink alcohol
and for this, flunk social protocol
I dislike freckles, and have a bunch
I bend, I slouch, I slump, I hunch
I get depressed but never treat
I just stay up late and never eat
somehow, I’ve seemed to manage this wreck
to keep my addictive tendency in check
though these faults I easily admit
I’d like to think there’s some good to it
I’ll never regret the time departed
for when I love, I love whole-hearted

    

      

Copyright L.M. 2008.

Proximity

dusty
stinging burns the dry
pulling tight today
trying to set it up
and I look ridiculous
could you believe
it’s about time
she’s asking me
to make another appearance
shocking though it may be
it’s part of my defense now

a line upon my bottom lip
shaking from frustration
would you believe me
if I couldn’t be happier
since daily death leads fresh
to daily rebirth
and nothing’s more precious
than that sound of life
that view of life
this taste of life

a smell of deception
foul to the touch
with acrid hints
designs a fate:
much greater, hollow
like within a cave
where the echo
resounds its wave

mindful of a gilded hue
rosy-themed and crackling
sharpened wit adorns my view
stands alone attacking
saddled, ridden, oh the ride
blinds me now to take my eyes
sit atop the highest fence
and toss me down our common cents

Finished: 3:32 p.m., Wednesday, December 12th, 2007. (c.p.t., t.b.a.; a few edits finished around 3:46 p.m., same day.).