i'm feeling really fragile
     delicate and brittle
easy to break
               and finely painted on
           mostly pale with pastel color
please don't
  d
      r
  o
     p
           me to shatter on the ground
   be gentle with the fine china

I almost said I'm sorry
I typed it out in text
but then I sat in worry
over what may come next

At the bottom of a bottle
wallowing in sorrow
I critiqued my writings
and said I'll send them tomorrow

It told you I still love you
and I'm haunted with regret
I have been so selfish
with all I wish I hadn't said

I awoke in the morning
with a clearer head
read it all again
and chose not to send

I deleted the message
I know it sounds absurd
but in that moment of weakness
I still meant every word.

Once again I subject
myself to the neglect
and the same heartache
Ive come to expect
As all my good intents
fall into worthlessness
creating this joke
at my own expense

And i already know
I have been down this road before
seeing the same signs that I once ignored
And I already know
the outcome will not change
when all my actions still remain the same.

breaking my neck for
the same outcome as before

Self saboteur

I walk through the dark but await a new dawn
for what I feel is right sometimes turns out wrong
It's about where your going, and not where you've gone
I wander this path to find where I belong
Under no circumstance will my resolve be fawned
even though I surpassed the line that was drawn
My soles are worn thin, but these legs still stand strong
If the shoe fits wear it, and walk the **** on.

Seven New Poems For Seven Days # 5: Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes



Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

*Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

your hair fell into your eyes
      but you didn't brush it away
      you left it
                                                     there
     covering your eye
it was so cute                                                        (i love you)
but i hated
    that you left it there
    and i wasn't able
    to brush it
                                                     away
    it tortured me
    please don't leave it
                                                     there
    just move it
                                                     away
    for me please
    end my torture of not
    being able to move it

A red lipstick stain on a smiling
stranger's cheek
A woman bragging frantically
about her perfect peach
tree on some gardener's TV
The look of pure relief
shared between a mother and her son
after she's looked all over the grocery store
to find his quick little traveling legs
The scent of **** catching in my nose
as I roll down the window in a random
parking lot & the distant laughter that follows
Twelve year olds holding hands in the mall
The fresh gloss on their lips from that
messy, pre-teen kiss
Watching my best friends write lyrics
Pitching in with small thoughts and
more precise words
And then singing along at the top of my lungs
When the pit opens up
at a small venue, one week later
An old man sitting silently
Reading "Dancing at the Harvest Moon"
with a gentle smile at my local library
He doesn't notice me
Two straight lovers screaming "legalize gay"
at the marriage equality march last May
Painting tiny little finger nails
when I've been asked to babysit
four small angels
Shady trees on painfully sunny days
And the look on your face when you talk
about the things you know so well
I get lost
I lose my breath
And I am in love with everything
At least during these short glimpses
of a beautiful world