I am tired.
my thoughts
       drift


         downward


    like
                leaves
                       on
                  an
            autumn
      day          
        departing
       a tree's
           sustenance

        eventually
                            
landing on a still black pond
deep and lightless but clean.
        Clinical.
         and
          so the
            leaf
             sinks
to the mud encrusted bottom
that only I can penetrate alone.
A place where dark emotion is logic                          
and logic is simply gone, wrong, contrived.
No breathing, no solving, every semblance of
normality and happiness simply rotting while
I try to contemplate which of me is truly me.
Am I slowly gasping, forgetting, expiring,
or am I glowing, forgiving, exhilarating?

Pieces of you linger
  In my mind, causing random smiles and outbursts of laughter,
   But sometimes I cry

Pieces of you reside
   In my heart, placing me in sentimental moods and reminiscent flight,
   But sometimes I just cry

Pieces of you remain
  In my nose, creating fragrant blissfulness
Pieces of you stay
  On my skin, triggering spontaneous quivers
Pieces of you survive
  On my tongue, causing cravings for sweet things

  But sometimes I still just cry
  
Pieces of you are indelibly ingrained
   In my soul, intensely reminding me of love and love lost
   And I cry :'(



© Tina Thompson 2011

Your approach was fast with one clear direction
Each word recited with a single intention

To coax and subdue, move virtue out of the way
To ****** and conquer today's targeted prey

................But................

Your motives were clear,  it was all quite evident
Each compliment given became more transparent

To manifest your purpose, there's just one thing to do
To engage with vigilance and show kindness to you.

................and...............

Just as expected your game now exposed
Your words of admiration are quickly disposed

To search for a weaker opponent no doubt
To find someone who's blind to what you're about

...............sad..................

©Tina Thompson 2012

Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration.
Filth encrusted metaphors
burst like bog bubbles.
Fill my mind.
Sleek and killing similes
pounce through synapses.
Claws in brain.
All sing of fall,
of decay.
Of mud and grime
clinging to souls,
like guilt to a survivor.
Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration
only to find
that these aren't true,
they can't be true,
or at least
they're only shadows
compared to the giant flame,
because the world
is always getting better.

Can't you see?
Just look out of you.
This beauty
comes not only from within,
but from farm, field, mountain, and glen.
Happenstance and luck had no place
within what is simply heaven's grace.
But yes another gift was choice,
and yes what shakes is my voice
because I cannot force
this society's course.
I cannot show you this is real,
that it is not just how I feel.
That this is truth.
This is light.
But what hurts the most
is seeing the ghost,
the old you,
the knowing you,
the you that's gone.

What do you write about when you're empty?
not
a depressing,
a dreary,
a crying empty.
Just
a sitting
a wondering,
a being.
Not content,
not needy,
just neutral.
When that spark eludes you,
when the profound refuses to
scream and scratch
at the borders of the mind,
What do you do?
Maybe strike pen to page in defiance
or just simply think,
maybe go for a run,
or simply drink.
When you're neutral
options are open,
all open.
When you're neutral,
you're free.