recently...
real _____ flavor!
i've tried to silence the uncouth and jagged edges of my words,
sharp tongue, impatient fumings,
but i would not want the perfection and unlearned life
of the 'innocent' girls that you desire.
i'd rather be bitter and jaded than not have lived or learned from experience
--no matter how foolish and wrong.
i do not apologize for the fearless behaviour of my youth,
but apparently you would rather me blond.
brisk settling
let us go back to the days when skies were grey
and weeping willows wept for us at the close of summer.
let me swing on branches into gullies and snatch crawdads out of creeks,
-- barehanded and barefoot in rural Indiana.
let the wind blow through pigtais as they bounce with a skipping girl,
eyes alight at mounds of dried leaves for only her jumping.
let the scent of wet earth and burning leaves waft into my nose
rank deeply, and harbor in my jeans.
let sweaters be pulled from musty and dank cabinets, chests, and closets.
boots long to be refreshed each year in the mud
at the pumpkin patch in the country.
let the dark stratus clouds cyclone above a yellow sky,
as wheat fields bow in the gusts.
let fall breathe life into my quarter life bones,
and let them rest for a moment in my memories.
another season
the trees' leaves are changing color--just slightly, turning the tips a tinge of olive-brown.
the air is getting crisp and cool,
and hooded sweatshirts and sweaters are being pulled from backs of closets,
out of trunks, and from hope chests--scented of stale pine.
boots are replacing high-heeled sandals,
halters are traded for layered tanks, shirts, and jackets.
the air is scented with decaying leaves and approaching christmas.
i am debating running away--setting up camp in the woods,
sleeping in hammocks in the afternoon sun,
reading books all the day long,
OR
continuing to work at my cube,
while i stare longingly out the non-non-reflective window
that overlooks the gully-turned-pond, electrical fountains,
man-carved landscapes, gazebos, and benches.
the lifestyle i provide for myself allows my escape on the weekends,
typically via many imported stouts and wines.
one gets to a point in his/her life where the quest
becomes less about marginal income, college debt, and useless fashion...
am i living to work or working to live?
rent and ramen to exlclude this posture-breaking disease called commerce,
or steaks, fine labels, and high thread-count sheets.
they really are one and the same. both can be enjoyed in their own ways.
personally, a held hand is far more worthy of my time
than hours spent trying (to fit in/) on
these hundred-dollar Enzo Angionoli heels.
i've tried to silence the uncouth and jagged edges of my words,
sharp tongue, impatient fumings,
but i would not want the perfection and unlearned life
of the 'innocent' girls that you desire.
i'd rather be bitter and jaded than not have lived or learned from experience
--no matter how foolish and wrong.
i do not apologize for the fearless behaviour of my youth,
but apparently you would rather me blond.
brisk settling
let us go back to the days when skies were grey
and weeping willows wept for us at the close of summer.
let me swing on branches into gullies and snatch crawdads out of creeks,
-- barehanded and barefoot in rural Indiana.
let the wind blow through pigtais as they bounce with a skipping girl,
eyes alight at mounds of dried leaves for only her jumping.
let the scent of wet earth and burning leaves waft into my nose
rank deeply, and harbor in my jeans.
let sweaters be pulled from musty and dank cabinets, chests, and closets.
boots long to be refreshed each year in the mud
at the pumpkin patch in the country.
let the dark stratus clouds cyclone above a yellow sky,
as wheat fields bow in the gusts.
let fall breathe life into my quarter life bones,
and let them rest for a moment in my memories.
another season
the trees' leaves are changing color--just slightly, turning the tips a tinge of olive-brown.
the air is getting crisp and cool,
and hooded sweatshirts and sweaters are being pulled from backs of closets,
out of trunks, and from hope chests--scented of stale pine.
boots are replacing high-heeled sandals,
halters are traded for layered tanks, shirts, and jackets.
the air is scented with decaying leaves and approaching christmas.
i am debating running away--setting up camp in the woods,
sleeping in hammocks in the afternoon sun,
reading books all the day long,
OR
continuing to work at my cube,
while i stare longingly out the non-non-reflective window
that overlooks the gully-turned-pond, electrical fountains,
man-carved landscapes, gazebos, and benches.
the lifestyle i provide for myself allows my escape on the weekends,
typically via many imported stouts and wines.
one gets to a point in his/her life where the quest
becomes less about marginal income, college debt, and useless fashion...
am i living to work or working to live?
rent and ramen to exlclude this posture-breaking disease called commerce,
or steaks, fine labels, and high thread-count sheets.
they really are one and the same. both can be enjoyed in their own ways.
personally, a held hand is far more worthy of my time
than hours spent trying (to fit in/) on
these hundred-dollar Enzo Angionoli heels.