| unsay ( @ 2005-07-20 22:08:00 |
| Entry tags: | poetry |
i'm sick of the things that i do when i'm nervous.
I'm not very good with free-verse poetry. I never know how free to make it. Just tell me if it works, & if it's coherent. Thoughts on the ending will be appreciated, too.
I'm looking in all your windows
trying to find the door, and
sleeping in the bushes in the
cast of your lights;
the cold and the thorns don't
bother me as much as the
scars that bleed overnight.
Frantic, I'm searching for these
doorways in the dark,
anticipating and fearing what forms
may progress through them, stark
spirits I both love and fear.
As I watch you I dream about leaving
without saying goodbye,
never ceasing to believe
you could have made me feel alive.
Instead of cleaning the oven or checking my tires, I write poetry and clean my room.