Her little fancies

How honest, the obsession of an addict

Floating
through the streets
wearing nothing
but her face

She plays no games no more with you

You are the jagged edge
that tears flesh from its soul
leaving her soul
free to bleed

There is nothing left, save elegance

Traipsing through her vague spirit
there is no way to win or lose
there is only this;
her scars from your wounds

Which her tears kiss quickly as they fall


There have been a handful of times now that I have not understood what "I" have written until I read it again at another time. That's when the real editing starts-when I realize that I have not actually captured the essence of what I meant to say.

I'm a process.  I'm done thinking about inefficiencies, insufficiencies, or incompatibilities. Life is hard enough as it is. These imaginary deficiencies just make everything harder.

I spoke earlier today that I am a poet. Suddenly I was. We can deem ourselves whatever be our great desires. And then we are. If I speak that the ocean soothes me, it does. If I tell you that I love you, then you are love to me. If we crown ourselves kings of the night, then burn the night like comets, then we are stars.

Thank you for listening to my little fancy. I am your devoted friend. I am. ;)