Missing Northern Lights.

A lightless sky,
where have the Northern Lights gone?
I can't see where the water starts,
or where the trees bend,
or when the night begins.
All because of
a lightless sky.

Disregarding Friends.

Your disregard
is a thumbtack
through the toe,
a brick
crushing my skull.

My tongue is heavy
with lead,
so it pains me
to say
that I must
step towards
scary life
without you.

- - -

I suppose some friends are not forever. Any mature person would know this, but it doesn't silence the pain of absence.

I'm at a certain point in my life where in less than eight or so months, I'll have to step away from everything I've known for the last three years. Things are changing, rapidly. I don't know where exactly I'm going, and I don't think I necessarily need too. But I do feel as though I'm losing a handle on things I thought I understood, on people I thought I knew, on where my talents are and who I am as a whole.

Live and let go, I guess.

Tea in October.

Green tea,
hot and bittersweet,
drops into my stomach
and warms cold thoughts.
Blood flows again,
and my fingers
don't feel
so paralyzed
with snarking October winds.

- - -

The colors of autumn are starting to fade here, from those dramtic yellows and oranges to a dull, flat, decaying brown. Feels like winter is almost here.

A Writer With An Interesting And Fishy Perspective.

This entertaining blog has an a new and fresh perspective: Miscellaneous musings through the eyes of a Betta fish. I personally thought the idea was gloriously fun.

http://pinyins-tank.blogspot.com/

Check it out, and be entertained by Pinyin the fish and his tankmates.

A Scowl.

Her scowl
is a snarl
in her eyes
and a roar
in her mouth.
She tears you down
when she
dosen't want to.

A Grin.

He grinned
a staggered grin.
Thoughts and tremors
left unsaid.
But they show--
plain as day,
dank as night--
in half hidden
teeth.

Ash in an Ashtray.

An ashtray,
glass that no longer
glistens with geometric shapes--
there's too much
ash in there.
It used to be
a thing of beauty.
Now it's a sorry state
of it's former self,
like hands that tap
ash
into an ashtray.

Lightning.

I remember being lightning
dancing with the best;
I was quick of wit
and sharper of tongue.

Those days,
like boiling
tumultuous clouds,
have moved on
taking the lightning
and brooding thunder
with them.

Cursive.

I want to see
this pen
scrape at paper,
make little
flowing marks,
that resemble
a language.

SenileSociety.

Walking to that place
I call a home,
I slump down a sidewalk.
Leaves, crunching and yellow,
are strewn across gritty cement.
I walk past trash lining
the street and see
an old woman
back bowed and joints aching
raking up leaves.
There are no young backs,
strong legs and arms of zeal,
to do this
for her.

I, as young
as I am,
kept walking.