If only I could learn to merge.

I would travel all the miles,


even if it is to nowhere.

emotionally attached
to numbers,
all around.
the painted shapes and lines,
of symbols and sounds.
representing years and weights
and casting shadows on the ground,
measuring the passage of the time
I waited around,

for your forgiving presence,
and how you crunch your face

when all the world opposed
is just one not-so-witty man.

you leap like lions at my distaste.

Your life is plastic.

Molded and condensed,
shaped and cut

by the hands of your elders.

modeled only after themselves.


Good luck in your life and all that you do. I hope that the world eats you alive.

If all you needed was attention, you could have gotten it another way. You can wax poetic all you want, but it just might push me farther away.

Everyone's got a bone to pick with the weatherman, but what about the sky?

I've never been one for just predicting-it's dangerous, careless; and I've got my
head
screwed
on
too
tight.

I could read the maps all day,
but I'd rather just pick up leave and run.
I try not to be bitter when I wake up,
but all that
bird-chirping-business
while its
raining-cats-and-dogs
has got me spinning in my mind
and closing jagged doors,
and pulling shades on the
windows 'til their tight,
shut-up, closed-down.

girl, you talk a big game. Let me remind you how much those you are trying to convince talk as well.

You can't get 'em with your mouth. So how else will you convince them?

in my cave i will escape

fabric walls and billowy floors.