When sitting in your room
won't necessarily do,
you collect the words
caught in your walls,
the ones that will
never be spoken,
the ones that only live
trapped in paper.
After a few more drinks
and a couple more notebooks
you run out of ink,
and inevitably begin to think
of the haunting sound
that every question-
mark makes.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Cautious Like Guaze
Some words cannot be
unwritten, not like socks
unsewn and raveled back
into a neat burgundy
ball, or Listerine
swashed and swished
back and forth
between dumb
porcelain studs.
Some words turn
into arrows once
they touch the air
and sink sharply,
deep and irrevocably
inside the chest.
The pain in erasing
a scar comes not
from the bleeding
but from the sound
of the memories
it contains.
unwritten, not like socks
unsewn and raveled back
into a neat burgundy
ball, or Listerine
swashed and swished
back and forth
between dumb
porcelain studs.
Some words turn
into arrows once
they touch the air
and sink sharply,
deep and irrevocably
inside the chest.
The pain in erasing
a scar comes not
from the bleeding
but from the sound
of the memories
it contains.
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