where does it lead

all the accumilation,
all the agony.
al the world needing and no one giving.

"he's worth an estimated 2 billion dollars."
"she's the fashion icon of Europe."

what are they talking about?
why do we even bother.
that's not real life, though it may be life to them.

in the end, we have nothing to lose.
in the end, nothing is lost,
unless we lose ourselves...
unless we lose Him.

should i sing from my throat?

if a gun was held to my head and i was told to choose,
i don't think i would be here.

i think i'm longing for the road.
for smokey night clubs.
for a purse filled with simple coins.
for singing everywhere
or anywhere
they'd listen.
to sing over loud voices.
to sing in the silence.
to sing my babies to sleep.

i would play those black and white keys.
i'd try my hardest to improve
for the sake of getting what i want to say across.
what do i want to say?
what is it i contain in my bones?
what is it that aches?
what jealousy is this?
what longing?

i feel lost in these feelings, and for the lack of an outlet.

would they listen? and would they even care?
do i need them to?
i think i'm getting to the point where i just don't care anymore.

i'm getting too old.
the train i want to catch is already leaving the next stop.



should i run to catch it?
i need the hope.
how much hope do i need?
i need the hope.
how much hope do i need?
i need affirmation.
how much affirmation do i need?

dissapointment.
fear.
rejection.
sinking.
gulping from this bitter cup.

maybe it's time to drown.
because this feeling needs to end.

i'm watching people in their apartments

if i look just over my window sill, i can see them in their apartments.
unaware of each other,
even though i am so fully aware of each of them.

the woman who sits on her balcony each and every morning, in a navy blue bathrobe,
with her legs placed slightly apart.
i wonder if she's lonely.

two
blonde haired girls playing in the kitchen on the third floor,
window second to the left.

the young couple,
like moving shadows,
with the round paper lantern.

the single young woman with bottle red hair,
and potplants on her balcony.
(there were two men over last week, and they moved her couches.)

my stomach is acid.

i lean out of my window and wonder
if
anyone is looking.

i should know better

and i thought one word wouldn't hurt,
that one turn of phrase could do no harm.
that i could patch it up and it would be gone.
oh, i should know better.
you come back, EVERY TIME!
we need to talk.
i don't want to.

but i do.
i do.
i do.

all of a sudden i'm throwing out the welcome mat.
what?!
who just inhabited my body?
it's as if i am two in one,
and the one that i suppress is,
has,
and ALWAYS WILL BE focused,
mesmirised,
hypnotised,
in the hold,
slipping through the sweaty grip of...
bruised around the heart by...
chocked at the throat by...
shocked by, held captive by, prisoner of, sickened to the stomach...
by
you.

and here i am crawling back for more.

once, twice, thrice...
how about another go?
how about i scrape this barely healed gaping hole
deeply?
let me sever myself again.
oh, i must love pain.
oh, i must be a sucker for tragedy.
i must be ABSOLUTELY INSANE!

i've died in a car accident,
and here i go driving again.

spinning leaves

tipping and twirling towards the soil
these spinning leaves.
my eyes are trapped in the curl,
and the unfurling of their ragged edges,
eaten away by the weather and insects.
once green,
now turned to shades of brittle grey.
they have paled
from lack of light.

poor leaves.

little leaf, falling again to the ground.
pinned once to the tawny branches,
and now spiraling out of control.

poor leaf.

when you reach the bottom,
when you finally rest with your friends on the damp ground,
remember,
disintergrating,
what it once felt to sway freely...

leaf.

it ended and begun

my stockinged legs barely grazing the surface,
swinging back and forth
and forth and back...
and over.

sweeping over.
the job of a broom.

i'm thinking, in the motion of my natural sway,
that there are so many children here.
but we never see them.
babies faces hidden in their shadowy perambulators.
cries the only indication of their existance.

why doesn't memory begin at the beginning,
and end at the end?
why must it fade in and out so?

do we really want to even remember what that was like?

She put her arm around me

arms folded,
and it seems i'm always sitting this way.
if you feed me, i'll be faithful.
if you fill me i'll gaze into your eyes untill the hunger growls inside once more.
was it weird to see her eyes standing out of her head?
it was as if water was pushing from behing her lids,
and i couldn't focus.

i could only see her eyes
and feel the hunger.

and when i rubbed my eyes to hopefully erase and start again,
i found out
i'm not an etcher sketcher.