You mock me again
as fevered wrist begins to pulse
from the hinges... barbed vignettes glide,
while swoosh of rain 's ink
bathes upon the sill's lattice...
I reach for its nectar ,
this breath sipping the language of words
yearning to be born :
From my window,
a gush filters through hooks
... muddying my quill on shingles
your verses bouncing around, round
to tumble into drafts of musings
searching for silence In chaos--
for moist within my drying cave ;
and from this irreverent place,
I allow the grace of muse's charm
to open my soul's voice like an outpour
of virginal dew...
a promise to cruise into your unknown trails,
this papyrus enticed, lines mocking me again :
Somehow, late dusk arrives with tinge of lamplight
bringing a thrill along my fingers ,
sensualidad grating , yes...rising like so,
ready to greet the ache, the tremble,
the ravaged beginnings
of pain's melody... half-desecrated, half-wise.
Dear poetry, my intrinsic ally,
Inaudible voice striving to be heard,
There’s a lifelong pact between you and I -
Crafting lasting legacy, word by word.
I have wild notions and an endless drive,
You mix the inspiration and the muse,
I pen the drafts, you spark them all to life -
You’ve got the final say I can’t refuse.
Respectfully I gracefully accept
The harsh rejection of a ruthless judge.
So when you deem my rough copy inept,
I vacillate but I don’t hold a grudge.
I posit we two share the ties that bind -
Literally I’m tied up to a chair.
Quid pro quo I reciprocate in kind -
If I don’t pen you, you haven’t a prayer.
Dear, you’re stuck with me, even if you try,
Unless you swap my sweatwork for AI!
August 30, 2026
we glare, we groan, we get along!
a duo doomed by destiny,
bonded by drafts,
betrayed by buffering,
yet somehow still showing up
for the next wild idea.
Water speaks under the planks.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I will not feed the water.
The river wears broken mirrors.
It calls my name in pieces.
I will not feed the water.
The bridge pretends to be mercy.
Bolts cry out then swallow sound.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
You wait across the dark.
Your voice a thin lantern in skull.
I will not feed the water.
Cables hum like teeth in wind.
Each sway drafts endings I can't revise.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I taught myself fire for you.
Now current learns my face.
I will not feed the water.
Love begs; the current applauds.
Boards bow praying not to snap.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
Something separates us final.
Wood, water, and my terror.
I will not feed the water.
The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
My muse showed up at sunrise
with a grin I didn’t trust,
whispered, “Let’s write brilliance!”
though my brain was gathering dust.
My notebook’s overflowing~
every page a scribbled plea:
Why do ideas strike at midnight
but ignore me during tea?
I chase down inspiration
like a tumbleweed in flight~
it rolls off toward the mountains
while I trip in morning light.
My drafts are wild stampedes,
every sentence bucking free;
I wrangle them with coffee
and a whispered, Mercy me…
It seems I’ve written myself into a corner~
pages piling up like overexcited puppies,
yapping for a home.
My desk groans under the weight
of poems, memoirs, and drafts~
half-finished brilliance,
and that one story I swear I’ll revise someday.
The solution seems obvious
another filing cabinet~
a shiny metal monument
to my writing compulsion.
But where to put the thing
in this tiny office
already stuffed with creativity
and questionable organizational choices.
Then it hits me
the closet~
that mysterious portal
where abandoned sweaters go to retire.
It’ll fit snugly inside
like it was always meant to be there,
guarding my words
like a loyal metal dragon.
Problem solved… for now
until the next poem arrives
demanding its own drawer
and the closet starts whispering,
“Don’t even think about it.”
Pulled to align
The pendulum argued.
But the plumb bob knew
what's right and not contrite.
To be poised, centered,
upright, steadfast, sure
adroit, proud but not trite.
Dangling right on
the plumb bob line,
a pendulum perpendicular
pondered,
then answered
to prim and proper,
with ample sufficiency
now certain.
Gravity assured,
swings swung, spun run,
seesaw done,
all daft drafts
exhausted,
the bob plumbed
to settle on
aplomb.
Pens... pens... pens.
I simply cannot have enough!
I sometimes pinch one off my dad
To write my first drafts rough.
Without stationary,
Where would we poets be?
A creators bliss is to settle down
With pen, paper and tea.
We don’t fight.
We don’t raise our voices or slam doors.
We just… exist beside each other now.
The silence isn’t peaceful anymore.
It’s full of all the things we don’t say.
Small complaints tucked under our tongues.
“Why didn’t you notice?”
“Why do you act like that?”
Questions that never make it past our teeth.
I don’t trust the way I used to.
Not with a storm —
but with a slow leak.
The kind that drains you
without you realizing the tank is empty.
In the beginning, his name felt like home.
Now it feels like a room I’m careful in.
I still love him.
I just don’t feel _held_ the same way.
We’re not broken.
We’re just unresolved.
Two people reading different drafts
of the same story,
pretending the missing pages don’t matter..
The frustration
Of you
Is like a relentless migraine
Absentmindedly
Mind numbing
I need the daily reminder
How I could be everything
Sleeping in your favorite shirt
Holding me so close
I can feel your heartbeat against my back
Whispering the drafts
you’ve written
In your mind
Dripping in color
From your brown eyes
To my red hair in the sun
Or I can be nothing
Crying in your favorite shirt
Holding my blanket so close
It can feel my jagged breath against its back
Writing taught me plenty~
like how my thoughts, so many,
line up like rowdy schoolkids
when I give them half a chance.
It showed me words go dancing
when I stop over-glancing,
and sometimes trip spectacularly
while trying to look grand.
It proved my drafts are stubborn~
they mutter, Try again, hon,
but if I bribe them with some chocolate
they usually behave.
And most of all, it told me
my messy mind can hold me~
a slightly tilted universe
that still deserves the page.
peripheral vision is a curse
showing me what I've left undone
like cream swirls in my coffee
which my will can't mix in
can't stir to closure
to declutter
and finish
half-starts
drafts
wants
hopes
left to languish
in cafe latte, now cold
She’s up at dawn binoculars raised
Surveying lawns like crimes unfazed
A rogue petunia out of line
She files a claim by 8:09
A car she doesn’t recognize
Becomes a case she must analyze
Stolen she mutters pacing slow
She’s texting the board before they know
If someone grills past quiet time
She drafts a message crisp and primed
Attachments timestamps photos too
Her self-proclaimed duty through and through
She’s judge and jury of the street
A self-appointed rules elite
No porch too cluttered hedge too tall
No harmless fun too small to stall
The neighbors begrudgingly grit their teeth
When she reports a wreath beneath
The approved specs for seasonal décor
They’ve learned to keep an eye on their door
Not a board member but eager to enforce
She guards the HOA’s covenant with a nosy force
A watchdog? Maybe A pest? Perhaps
Forever wasting her days setting petty traps
You stand before a wall.
It waits, blank as withheld breath.
What hovers over you?
Drafts unpinned,
stories unspoken,
videos sealed,
pages chasing horizons
that never arrive.
Perfection whispers—
a mask for delay.
What if you placed
one imperfect mark?
What if you let motion
carve its shape?
The wall gathers:
crooked sketches,
half-born concepts,
awkward stretches,
jokes collapsing mid-laugh.
Chaotic. Messy.
Unfit for display.
Yet weeks later—
fragments draw together,
a shape begins to inhale.
Not triumph,
but a quiet forming,
a world exhaling
what ‘til now was withheld.
.
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