Friday at 4PM EST - free online writing workshop, email to join.
A quieting So subtle and soft Masked By the whistle of the wind The girl goes Unheard.
Positions are replaceable, People aren’t.
My name stained Your tongue, Tapped your teeth And Lingered on your lips. These words you never said-- My name Written between the lines Of tales half-told: Stories of lust and longing,
Your assumptions of who I am, what I am and why I am the way I am, have nothing to do with me. You want answers ask more questions and be satisfied with what you get or fuck off entirely.
We fall back into old routines With the same affection and uncertainty. Forgetful, Distracted by the lure of love; Behind our eyes, A dozen unanswered questions.
Oblong and oolong Orange leaves Whither in winter's wake.
Speak them into existence And they will haunt the air. Ghouls or goals? Your tongue is a sharp thing, A pointed wand, and All words are magic, So think before you speak.
Pylons, The honeybees of a developing city Over flowerbeds and bike racks Making way for city plots and Parking lots, and 40 storeys-- Tales tales Which wake us in the Early morning Cracked concrete and reversal beeps. Playgrounds removed And replaced, Children displaced, Our rent rising As old homes fall.