Friday afternoon poetry

An itch you can't scratchA scratch you can't reach A stretch you can't stretch Expansion is constant and always retreating Always is a dirty word and should never be used Should, always, never Forever is typically hopeful, but I won't say always Never is usually throwing in the towel

My point of view is skewed and others look in with judgement, more experience, better approaches I can see you, too, you know It bothers me sometimes that there are parts of my body I'll never be able to see without a mirror

Maintain, I have to at least maintain But if I'm only treading water, I'll eventually drown where I paddle My dreams haunt me with reality

Reality is invading my reality

Don't stop

I breath in and hear a digitized melody. Clear to me, more than before, that perhaps not everything is as it seems. Not a new concept. A knew concept.

Simple facts have complicated history, while history is not so complex.

Boil it down to black and white and there will always be a trace of gray. No need to add color.

Routines, circles, back and forth, round-trip journeys. Old, stale, expected.

Bring on the new.

That melody haunts me. It reminds me I've become anticipated, mechanical and robotic.

It's time to stretch. It's time to warm up. It's time to light that fire under my ass. It's time to push beyond the point of comfort.



Pass the butter, please

Accomplishment is found in nine dinner rolls. Silent gratitude turns to attitude. Spinning my wheels, screeching to a halt. Try to count the feelings that flew by. I dare you.

Double dog. Double dutch.

Too many things to juggle and maintain focus and maintain a smile and maintain finger nails that haven't been gnawed down past the point of nail bed comfort.

So it has to stay small and it has to stay manageable and it has to remain within sight, within grasp.

The tub is shallow and can easily overflow. And I just have to wonder where Mr. Bubbles is when I need him. He's gone for the day, he's out to lunch, he's back in five.

Not here, not now, not here, not now.

And so I return to the dinner rolls. With a sense of accomplishment in my stomach.

Sunday night

I call this poem... Waiting in the club Whiskey in my hand Jazz in my ears Fat girl to my left

I call this poem...

My boyfriend went out for a taco My phone has no service Still waiting for the show Not caring if I look shallow Tapping my phone

I call this poem...

Maybe I'll want a taco later Did I want one now? Fat girl talk about previous employment Apparently glass eyes get crusty

I call this poem...

Sip my drink casually Mic check, mic check The fat chick is loud I won't apologize for that

I call this poem...

Sunday night.