Poetry (Sort of…)

Warning: These may suck a lot.

Am I Here Yet?

You invite the daylight,

Like you invite the setting sun.

And clasp loosely in your hands

this tiny drop of hopeless dreamers’ dreams,

that slinks through the cracks

at first sign of fragility delight.

As if.

You had the tenaciousness to hold it

clenched betwixt your trembling, bone thin fingers.

                                                                                                      Bared teeth,

                                                                                 fangs and all

dripping with salacious yet sardonic sneers

and now you have the foolish notion

to stand in front of the

breaking storm

with its torrential winds ripping through this porcelain carved house

and demand it hand over

                             your last pennies,

                                                       and the nickel,

                                                                         five safety-pins,

sharp rusted over point to be made,

belly-button lint,

and four-poster bed that you so casually

dropped on my head.

Because some days things are better left unsaid.


Wicked Little Children

wicked little children

fingers stained with

the red pieces of


stolen from the

garden of the small old

woman next door and down

the lane, her hair covered

in a lace blue bonnet and

peeking out of the brim in

wiry gray curls, she cackles

to herself every so often and

stares wild eyed at the sky

casting her thoughts

cheerily at the wind

in a hundred-year lullaby

“If only the wicked little children

had asked they would know

that the berries are poison

and cause death quite

painful and slow.”

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