Poetry

when i was thirteen i held a wrapper in my hand 
covered in red white and blue lettering 
a tribute to the land you once loved dearly 

What inherent flaw?

what celestial wrong?

missing ingredient?

failed experiment?

am I?

how am I so unlovable,

that no one comes to hold,

my sorry hand? 

You are fragile like a wine glass,

when you fall to the floor and shatter into a million pieces,

people will still walk on you,

they will cut their feet and blame you for it,

and although my feet are bleeding,

It's hard

to put yourself out there,

bear, exposed;

it's scary to take off your coat,

remove the mat,

and hang on limb over the edge of a cliff,

Will I fall?

Will the branch break?

the winter makes me so happy
the snow hanging in the trees
the cold biting at you
i love it

I will be someday, 

gone, 

that is. 

When I am, 

I hope the pine needles still grow thick 

covered thick 

with snow. 

Writing for me is like a river of words flowing out of me. 

Sometimes raging other times calm and slow. 

Other times it is as if the otters living in the river have built a dam. 

Blocking the flow, 

My muscles are tensing.

I need to move,

I need to leave this place.

My life is mundane. 

My life is slow-paced.

I need something to happen.

My hands are shaking.

I need to scratch,

I've never been a fan of Four-Letter Words,

never seen the need for profanity,

and thought swears showed a lack of self control,

Now, I haven't changed my mind

but four-letter words are more than curses,

Your new-ish house

your dog sleeping on the rug

my family and your family chatting comfortably

your kitchen with your hot chocolate

the fun spinny stools at the kitchen island

that's one of my happy places

i. So many people

Go through so much

And no one notices

Who are we?

We are humans.

We are life.

We are death.

We are what mends the bond to the earth,

and what breaks it.

We are complicated.

Inside us all is a soul,