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.

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Mud (December 2006)

who would have known?
back to the drawing board…..

rain surrounding
a puddle of mud
where I lay
helplessly shamed
melancholic and merciless
I tie these beams
strength in hands only
unaware of hope
open to nothing
I’m not well
and I sang too much

under me lies ground
unfamiliar and true
the incubated sadness gutting me
sidles up and winks
such a jerk
and buries me in splashes
as he passes me
slamming fists in the mud

Copyright L.M. 2006.

Fourflight

twice I watched my number pass
felt the crumbles of the blast
siphoned, mirrored, filed away
sickening by this light of day
parachutes of older grace
pick me up, cradle my face
I’m dying by the light of mourn
repelling with the scent of scorn
a patient man has never seen
the light of me, the plight of me
so sit still while I peck into
my scorching hands, Beautiful Blue
words that letters really ought
not touch the pearls that teach you naught
have wrung my hands into a knot
and teach me what shouldn’t be taught

Copyright L.M. 2007.