The Field

I am waiting

In the field

For you to find me

The whispers of the wind

To guide

But you will not catch me

You will not sweep me

From the ground

You will not leave me

Either

The night has come

And you stand

Above me

Gaping, at my sorrow

You do not know

Who

 I

Am

But you know

The nonsense

Of the self

Always wanting

Seething for something

Unreachable

You are not the One

I long for

But you will do

For now

You will do

It is hard to say

Why

A simple word

I listen for the answer

But it never comes

The wind roars

Through the brush

And trees

But they do not answer

They snicker

As I weep

For my loss

I want the warmth

The immense comfort

Of life

Therefore you

Will

Not

Do

I have decided

You are not

What I seek

You are

A reminder

Of what I have lost

Your warmth

Is lukewarm

Your touch

Shallow and steel

You let me loose

I will gladly go

Away from this nonsense

Away from the silence

Of waiting

Of wanting

Hoping there is

End

You are hopeless

You are also

Sweet and civil

But I will not 

You do not need me

And I surely

Do not want you

Need and want

In this field

Are the same

Need equals

Want

Want equals

Need

But you are neither

What I want

Or what I need

I am

Not want I want

I am

Not what I need

My attempts to calm

My fragile nerves

In this silence

Torture

I am not enough

But you are

No longer listening

You are not gaping

Or waiting

Or wanting

You are gone

And I am not

But still

We are not sufficient

You are not

And I am not

So, who are we?

Where are we?

The field is

Fading

And I am

Alone

Whispering to

Mocking

Winds

Period Ideal

If I could have an ideal period
I would crawl into a small hole and die slowly
The coroner will declare either:
"death by malnutrition"
because I will have been eating
only large quantities of chocolate
or a simple "she bled out"
Because that's what it feels like whenever I'm visited by that cynical, biblical
"monthly gift"

Fire

Its simple, the way one starts a fire 

shreds of one's discarded life 

in bits and pieces 

strewn into a blacked pit ready to burn

where careless bits before them have gone to die

to be forgotten

wasted on energy 

a puff of smoke; warmth for the feet 

of the careless human 

he does not care for last weeks newspaper clippings

the funnies are no longer funny 

so now they entertain, warm, and crackle 

as they singe and crumple 

defeated under the mouth of the hungry match

again he strikes the match on his uncontained life 

brimming with loose ends 

things that don't matter until they do 

then they are pointless 

save the use of destroying for advancement 

killing, for a greater good 

sacrifice, for an added on usefulness 

the smoke gets louder to his eye 

as he see and smells the potential warmth   

but his face does not change 

still apathy towards that little piece of life burning slowly 

and yet he picks up his latest book and begins to read 

how long till he throws its pages into his selfish fire?

Blind Love

If love is blind
I'd rather not fall
I'd rather not jump not knowing when I'll land
When I'll hit the ground; hard
I would rather not have my sight ripped away
For the feel and smell and taste of blind love
I'd rather see it
See how fast I'm falling and when I'll hit bottom
Then I could prepare myself for the hurt

Catfish

Watched a movie called Catfish
said some people are like catfish
keeping you on your toes; alive
and others are the cods, the ones who follow
who swim in line.
i don't think i like the analogy
everyone can be a catfish
with the right person in tow
everyone likes to be the attention getter

the one who makes the most noise
but everyone is more likely and more easily a cod
one who follows the crowd
even if they are unique enough to follow it separately
they still follow
an underground trend or a "fuck you world" show
they still have something they reach for outside of them
so, i call bullshit on catfish
who think they're hot shit
they are nothing but cods
playing the game while they can