I want to do something dangerously impulsive

Pocket Poems

When I don’t know how

to express myself, I write

small little poems

that I can carry

around in my shirt pocket.

When I get anxious,

I know the words are

right there, resting near my heart.

They are with me, safe.

Blink?

(blink... blink...) I feel numb.

How does it feel (blink) to die?

Is it the same as

watching (blink) paint dry?

Could you feel them wiggling,

your fingers and toes?

I don't know, I don't--

(blink, blink) waking up... I feel...

I feel. (blink blink blink.)

Among the flowers

Colorful flowers

as far as the eye can see.

Summer breeze in hair;

a laugh, a giggle.

All is well, here in the field,

laying next to you.

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--

Safety in the Storm

A terrible storm

cries and howls outside my door.

Rain falls from the sky

in heavy buckets.

It rat-a-tat-tats the roof

so hard I'm surprised

my home doesn't cave

beneath the weather's pressure.

I listen from bed,

beneath Mother's quilt.

I am safe and I am warm.

The storm lulls me off

into a deep sleep.

I dream of the ocean waves,

my childhood home.

Feeding

Late night rammblings

I can only overthink.

It's impossible

to find my lost thoughts

in the tangled web of words

spun to entangle

myself and my fear.

The anxiety spider

must be satisfied

at all costs, or else:

even my happiness and

fragile mental health.

I'm slipping, slipping,

until I feel nothing but--

Cold. Hard. Apathy.

Forgettable Conversations

Secrets for secrets;

one never tells a story

without a story

to trade them in kind.

So fill my cup, stranger, friend,

and I'll fill your ears

until Lady Moon

reminds us forgotten truths

we can't tell a soul.

Wander home, brother,

with words in your head you don't

remember hearing.

It Watches

Dark room, all alone

I can’t see it but I know

looking in windows

it observes me so

carefully, waiting, watching

seeing me through thin

transparent curtains.

Sometimes, when I see it’s eyes

I stare back at it.

It does not move, blink,

or turn away from my gaze.

I wonder why it

seeks for me, what it

is thinking as it watches.

I look away first.

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.