in the spirit of not being self-conscious...

[stealingthebird]

I was bored at work today, so I scribbled down this little poem. I'm well aware that no one cares, but it's all right because I do, and dammit, it's my journal. It's not much, but it's the only real writing I've done in ages. er...woot?

Bittersweet

I woke

this morning

tasting sweetness,

and I rolled it over my tongue

(without biting,

though I was sorely tempted)

and, standing,

the color I imagine

Dandelion Wine

to be

flowed under the souls of my feet,

having, apparently, trodden over eggs,

their yellow spreading,

ochre under cavewomen

toes,

with their shells piercing pink softness,

china-doll teeth chewing flesh, and

I fell,

(now lacking feet)

and red turned

yellow and pink and white

into a brown mess

that no amount of bleach would remove

(later applied by men and ladies

who follow the ambulances that travel

with their cargo

and no sirens).

It was a bittersweet morning.

.

.

.

so yeah.  that's my poem.