paper

i. If your hands were made of paper I'd paint them into the autumn colors. 
Oranges & reds are my favorite. 

ii. I'm knitting a scarf in order to
keep my hands warm
because we all know that when the 
cold weather comes my hands
turn into brittle ice cubes.

iii. I don't really write poetry all too much anymore. I've switched almost entirely to prose & most of that prose I will not let the world see. It's all sitting in my notebooks & I have many notebooks.  Read more »

I never find the words I feel are needed to be said. They call to me inside my chest, awaiting to impress. My hand it yearns to move the lead across the paper white. My heart it aches to tell the tale it cradles in its womb. My mind it hopes to clear it up, and make all feelings known. My fingers tingle with the wait, they sparkle with the knowledge. My eyes know all, but do deceive, the paper and it's markings. I will know not the truth behind the makings of my system. I shall receive the rightful things when I once more meet he who made me.

My pocket
Blue denim, sewn onto my jeans
I threaded the needle
I smoothed the fabric
I made my own pocket.
It’s got some lint
And an eraser, just in case.
I keep my thumb drive in it
A hall pass so I don’t get in trouble
Some money; just a dime.
A hard candy from Halloween
I’ll probably give it to a friend.
I’ve got a paper clip
Some crayon stubs
A handful of pencil shavings.
What’s this?
A piece of paper;
Crumpled
Dirty
Trampled
Mud-stained
Roughly shoved into my beautiful pocket.
What is it exactly?
A note
Writing to a friend?
Homework
Never turned in?
A poem Read more »

A writer no longer has to write.
Their paper is a glowing screen of pixels.
Their pen is a pad of ticking letter squares.
Fuck TYPERS.
I want to be a writer...
With a mode of writing that takes more effort than the "tick, tick, tick" of keys.
Let's move back in time, shall we?
Starting now... Read more »

The snow is dancing,
Twirling,
Swirling
Whispering enchanting melodies
Singing a haunting song
It drifts gently in sweet flurries
Past the window
The world seems to be blanketed
In powdered sugar
As the snow flies and dances
And swirls through the winter air
And forms drifts
Piles and piles of little dancing flakes
Create a field of diamond white

But someone
Has brought the snow indoors
Little hands,
With plastic scissors that barely cut,
Have fashioned intricate flakes of paper
Replicas of the dancers outside
Detailed designs and patterns
Create tiny snowflakes
That dance on the inside of the window
Fluttering in nonexistent wind,
They whisper rhymes of playful joy
And spread the chill of winter through the house

Someone
Has brought the snow inside
To sing, to twirl
To fly, to swirl
In a sugary dance
Through the glass, through the chill
Paper snowflakes
Have brought winter

And on the floor,
There are tiny scraps of paper
Triangles, squares Read more »

The blank page
stares at me
and I
strive
to drown it
in ink.

But the ink
refuses to obey me
and the white page taunts me.
It sticks out its tongue
and forces me to make up
something
to shut it up.

Sitting here doing paper work,
I’ll I can think about is you,
Your eyes,
Your hair,
Your everything.
So much is spinning
And twirling,
And overly distracting me
From my job.
But…
I don’t mind.
Love is a good thing to be distracted with.
Love,
And joyful daydreams
Of you.