I want to do something dangerously impulsive

Between Jobs

An itch in my brain

asks for something to achieve

but there's nothing left.

Reality slips

through the cupped palms of my mind.

I'd rather not Be

.

"be what?" I don't know.

I crave fantasy worlds and

you make me feel real.

Why must my poems

hold any less value than those

by "professionals"?

Quiet Bedrooms

In the apartment,

the only roommate who can't

leave on the weekend.

Echoless

“Notice me!” I scream

to the empty, roaring winds.

There is no answer.

Stained Confidence

Deep breaths, in... and out.

Trembling hand, I draw with pen,

transform ink to art.

Sleepless

I lay in my bed

impossibly tired, yet

mind still wandering.

Necessities

Tap tap tap my foot,

leg bouncing, impatiently.

I-- I need to move,

need to go, need to

kick, run, jump, dance, talk, laugh, scream--

I need to leave and

never look again

at what I leave behind me.

I want-- I need to--

Corpses of the past

rise and walk the overworld.

They crave Player flesh.

.

Lurking beneath waves,

the drowned wait to pull sailors

to watery graves.

.

Buzzards peck away

at the hollow husks of men

buried in the sand.

Skeleton

The undead archer.

An arrow notched, taking aim.

Player pincushion.

Creeper

Explosive creature

left holes in your house and lawn.

Rebuilding, once more.

Enderman

Be careful, don't look--

you'll be lost in the depths of

their enchanted stare.

firework colors

explode across midnight skies.

See beauty; feel hope.

Tired. Burning out.

Determined to continue,

with no time to sleep.

It has been a time

since I've written poetry.

I ponder my words,

counting syllables,

remembering how to write

simple, meaningful,

expression of thought.

Little comes to mind, and yet,

I write anyways.

.

I write for myself

as I always have; speaking

in patterns, for fun.