Writing

"when the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie"

dean martin's voice booms throughout the house

as I lay on the living room couch

basking in heat from the wood-stove

to the tune of an over saturated

There are vintage looking posters in the windows

And they’re probably not old

But I’d almost believe you

If you said they were.

They’re next to organic candles

From the raspberry farm down the road.

Imagine if

Every book came with a key

A key that opened a door

Into the book

Into the worlds

That are your happy place

Escape from reality

Taken to a new level

The joy found in between the pages

We try to stay quiet

despite the class being

nearly empty,

silent.

Muffle our laughter,

lower our heads,

cover our mouths,

attempting to

suppress our stalling.

Difficult

I'm not a painter,
but if I were, you'd be my muse.
I'm not a sculptor,
but if I were, I'd only sculpt you.
If I were a singer, I would never run out of songs,
People would get tired of how my serenades go on and on.

Here is another chapter in America's thirst for oil, a black liquid that fuels the cars that are killing our planet.