Soda, popped

Fizzled, bubbles still tickle my nose though.
Can’t help but think of you,
damn my creativity and affinity for
love.

Formulaic

Feeling worn on rolled up sleeves and
excuses coating tip of tongue idioms.
Paint on a scowl,
for old time’s sake?
Say you’d never leave but
blood runs through this pen
like ink all too ready to grieve.
Poised, geared up to dart,
bob and weave between the trees
that still stand as this season
opts for an exit too.
Hesitantly so, and yet
still won’t leave me alone.

Five

I think I was waiting for you.
I think I thought
you were worth waiting for.
And you are.
Anything in the light I’ve
painted you in
is worth waiting for.
Even if just for lessons learned
sake.
My once bulletproof thinking
presented itself for closure’s sake
and you were the first thing
to hop off my chest;
impenetrable as ever.

Quiet Type (8/9 Criteria)

I dance.
Turning, swirling everything
off my shoulders.
I dance until
I don't know I'm real.
They cry.
When I wake
I'm still dancing, shaking.
Everyday I dance my
lungs expand a little more,
tongue swells.
Tap my foot to Billy
singing my anthem.
Back against the wall and
partner of choice,
capital M-E. Damn near silent.
But I know I can dance.

Telepwn

Freedom rings!
in the form of
a new number.
Selective solidarity.
Better yet,
selective amity.

Two-Day Lament Allowance

Almost like I
asked in advance
she left me looking
a little less like myself
and two days from now
I’ll start to see the sting.
No time to recover,
nomadic hunches
deemed this land barren
and I’m on the move again.
I’m keeping a running tally.

Blessings

I think I’m taking knees,
counting all my blessings.
One, two.
For awhile I thought there was
one, two, and you.
And it sounded so astonishing
when you said it, but
the same words breached my
firmer tone and suddenly
didn’t mean anything.
So today I counted all my blessings:
one, two.
And I used to have you too.

Momentary

I’ll do better.
Build base back into
depths of pasts
I buried for Some Reason.
Wake up five years later,
better yet,
wake up at all.
Waiting on the implication
replaces faltering reverie.
Ho hums.
And each breath weighs
ten tons and four tongues
all wag at the thought:
I’ll do better.

Urban

Calling out for

offbeat soapbox socks

but still kicking it with

sufficed to say phrases

drawn out from tailpipe

tongue symphonies.

Words leave grit.