there is nothing
i can say to
make you
understand
the boxes
the intangible
loneliness
of lysol, white
walls
and jackets
crammed into
boxes
like st. helen
there is no
excitement
here
only anxiety
& fingers cut
to the bone
and the knowledge
that outside
everything is
the same
that it is always
the same.
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Whether by hobby, habit or the necessities of living, this space is reserved for people who write — poetry, most particularly, but we don't discriminate. At least not much.
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2007
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May
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- The Father, The Son
- I am Peter
- It's an oldie... I don't write much anymore, sorry...
- The Ride Home
- the whitewash
- linoleum & dust
- two old poems
- another side of the animal
- Call for Submission Calls
- as promised, promises.
- Welfare Mary (My fav)
- apologies and introduction
- to the good life
- Virtual Girl
- a poem in pencil/a work in progress
- In the Beginning
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May
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1 comment:
I find it very lonely that this lovely poem has no comments. here is a comment about this lovely poem in this lonely place. I am not voting for sympathy. or from sympathy. this is a lovely place where all the flowers are across the field. this is a lovely poem where all the flowers are under the field.
ds
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