My Tiny Bag of Sand (February 2007)

under every pyramid
and bodies freshly tanned
finds the topic of my poem
it’s my tiny bag of sand

I can see it in my mind
like ideas newly planned
a little piece of Heaven
is my tiny bag of sand

people walk along the coastline
picking shells up in their hand
but they’ll never grasp the concept
of my tiny bag of sand

it’s my beauty, it’s my pleasure
it’s my way around the bland
it reminds me of a better day
my tiny bag of sand

   

      

Copyright L.M. 2007. (alternate end stanza:
it’s my beauty, it’s my pleasure
it’s my way around the bland
it reminds me of a better day
on vacation, far away
idolizing Hemingway
my tiny bag of sand )

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I want you to know
every one of you
that I don’t cry for you
I don’t weep
I’m not heartbroken
for nothing can break
through stone

ups and downs
everyday drama
it’s not my thing
I’d rather hide in the forest
and wait for you to find me

as it is, I look for you
outside my door
exiting my life
and wonder if you’ll be back
because I never know for sure

where did I get these thoughts?

did Einstein suffer depression?
I suppose he must have
thoughts like that from me
have pricked the plume anew
though I like the solitary company

I bend
far too much
so much so
that I don’t know
within myself
where I search
and daily toss
the dye that bleeds me

I know where we stand
each and every single one of us
and I will continue to try
to rationalize
and objectify
myself in my mind
just for you

I soared into storm clouds
higher than life
I cannot blame the messenger
but yet I can’t help
feeling tossed
like stale bread
soaking up any hint of warmth
to postpone the brittle battle
I will play by your rules
I will chisel a path
as long as you still try
and as long as I don’t fall
but I should let you know
I don’t feel your respect
not today, nor yesterday
not in the slightest
don’t you see?
I’m the doll
the smiling face which you do greet
with open arms and fleeing feet
sighing, wishing for a day
with ladders finally tossed away
so I may sit alongside you
with worries none, and fears few
the palm I’m in is over-filled
and not exactly what I willed
but choices few, this chiselled stone
is all I have to call my own

Copyright L.M. 2007.  (written a couple months ago, and again I recognize the poem isn’t very good haha).