Driving down that winding road ( Read more... )

The ball point strokes the page,
Leaving ebony traces of passion,
Creating messy ringlets-- y’s and g’s-- around Her face.

Black ink kisses paper.
Each letter touches, tastes each line
As substance saturates the page.

What is paper without its pen?
Nothing but a sheet of stories untold--
Children unborn.

I’m feeling so restless ( Read more... )

I'm sorry, Shakespeare; I'm sorry, sonnet.
I didn't mean to misinterpret
the beauty you have to offer,
the rhythm, the rhyme,
your endless genius.
I'm just not up to par,
so I'm sorry, Shakespeare; I'm sorry, sonnet.

there is no future, no tomorrow ( Read more... )

Everyone says read, read, read.
No one is telling our kids to write.
If everyone stopped writing,
We’d run out of things to read.

Needle tip-taps on skin
With a little pain and passion.
Ink swims in and around
And something new is found within.
Now an image starts to form
Blotchy and light at first
But once the ink is settled
The message becomes clear.

Rows of books line walls
While girls sit in chairs
Talking, ignoring what the pages have to say,
Sitting at computers,
Reading new texts, intangible,
Ignoring what the pages have to say.

Honeycomb windows.
Are they decoration
Or protection?
Perhaps they’re meant to keep us in.
Crack a window.
Maybe a bird will fly through.
I’m only asking for some excitement.
A bird in this box would add some life
Since there is none in our eyes,
For we are caged birds that cannot fly through
Honeycomb windows.

Rain cries over us ( Read more... )