Sometimes the pitter-patter
Of rain
Sounds like
The crackling
Of a fire
And it reminds me
I haven’t yet decided
If I’m more afraid
To die by drowning
Or being
Burned alive
I can see
the faint glisten
of sun
off the top
of the water
in the creek
just beyond
a small lot
of trees
in my uncle’s
backyard.
The birds sing
songs of
Spring.
My breath kisses
The air
With a tinge
Of white smoke
As the sunrise
Swallows the night
Sky
And coughs up morning.
Perhaps I’m still single
because I have yet
to purchase
a coffee machine
or contraption
that makes more
than just enough
for one person.
My french press
barely makes a full cup
and my coffee maker
is just a cup.
I have a moka pot
that makes up to
six shots
and it always bums me out
that I have no one
to share it
with.
I could drink
it all
myself
and risk a
heart attack
but I turn the left overs
into ice cubes
for a refreshing treat
in my
iced coffee.
Coffee is perhaps
one of the main reasons
I still exist
and I guess
I’m still
not ready
to share
that.
I wish not to Weather this Storm
He said Don’t do anything rash,
Like hurt yourself
And what he really meant was
don’t cut yourself
and moreover
don’t kill yourself
There was enough worry
in his words
to soothe the world
but he follows worry
with a joke
almost negating
his concern.
He asks Do you think
you’ll weather this?
and I have but one response
I wish not
to weather
this storm.
What to do with my Stuff when I’m Gone
Sell my record collection,
you can use the money
to pay off some of my debt.
I hope they don’t leave you
with all the responsibility of that.
Give my books to a library,
people should always have
something good to read.
Give my clothes to charity
but not the Salvation Army
you shouldn’t even give them
your money.
Smash my guitar
I was never very good at playing
it anyway.
Delete my files
and don’t worry about reading anything
you wouldn’t
want to.
Lock my bicycle somewhere
so it can see the last bits
of sun
and of rain
and of weather
that I didn’t have
the strength
to allow
it.
And if anyone asks,
tell them the only thing
I wrote down
was
“I Tried.”
I do not wish
to write
carefully.
I’d like to write freely
without fear.
Writing only with compassion
my words jotted down
as quickly
and eloquently
on paper
as they appear in my mind.
A writer never wants safety.
They want adventure,
a challange,
something
new.
I want the words
to pour out onto paper
like the words
of a late night argument
rolling off the tip of a tongue
swift
without remorse
Sometimes words are meant
to be later filled with regret.
I’d like to say
at least I said what I had to say.
If you want to wait
for me to ask
“What’s she got that I don’t have?”
go ahead and wait
I’m not gonna ask
I’m not worried about that.
Anna scurried home, worried someone was following her. The street lights barely lit the puddles that were gathering from the rain. She kept looking behind her, there lurked a man in a hat and a trench coat.
She caught a quick glimpse of his face, only to see no face at all. He appaered to be a skeleton. He was death.
There was a knock at her door. Death had come knocking.
