Solitude is a fine thing before it tips into loneliness.
Loneliness and solitude live in the same house
and balance until lonesome perfection prevails. Then,
isolation, black and deadly, squeezes from the heart
a choked scream of gasping need, until, finally emptied,
all that remains is a ruined cavern bereaved of light.

  ~mce

Sweet like an angel.
Porcelain skin
and long blond hair.
All the boys are looking.
Grasping for air.
Her innocent face.
The sparkle in her eyes.
Her magical smile.
Light up this heavenly sky.
Always so humble.
Words gives her power.
To warm her heart.  
Guide her along the way.
She writes beautiful words.
Like a picture in a frame.
Sweetest angel.
Julie is her name.

A life without words.
Is a painting without paint.
A forrest without trees.
A beach without sand.
A rainbow without colors.
My life without you.
Is an empty space.
A bath full of tears.
A broken soul.
Brings a fake smile
on my face.
A fragile heart.
A sensitive mind.
My life filled with
words and you.
Is waking up
every morning.
See your smile every day.
Such a warm feeling
I can't replace.
Don't want to erase.
Wish I could be
your pillowcase.
Feeling your warm
gentle face.
See all of your dreams
in a different
kind of place.
This is a poem
of a loving girl.
Who can do anything
in a life with beautiful words.

Complexity sometimes so basic.
The most common sentence,
"I love you," only understood
by a single, unique reader
in all the living world.

  ~mce

I would like to wish
you good night.
Tuck you into bed.
Give you a smile.
A gentle kiss on
your forehead.
Watch you fall asleep.
May your dreams
be sweet.
Last words tonight.
Until next time we meet.

A tear in your eye.
By words in this life.
They can feel so humble.
Your soul so breakable.
Your love so untameable.
Sometimes my heart
can feel so brittle.
I can cry out in words.
So I can spread my wings
and fly like an eagle.

I've only got one bar
on my phone and there's only
one more between here and home.
Ten dollars in my pocket may as well
be a thousand. Like a penny
in the fusebox, I could make it last
until the lights go out. There's a cowboy
band playing. A wooden Indian
by the door. I don't think he listens
to their stories anymore. He's quiet
on the subject. He's quite an object
of curiosity. Instead of two-stepping
all night long, maybe I should take
that Indian home. Use the last bar
to call Coleen. Tell her to put a ***
of cowboy coffee on. We'll tell stories
of our own. Sing songs in the old way
about better days when we were young.

But where I am
It's always warm
My soul is sad
Sad like winter
So what I want to know
Is why do I miss the cold?

2/16/14
(a.f.c)