A poet

For lack of anything else to do tonight, I've been writing, writing, writing. It's been a long time since I've written this much, and it feels good, so at least a night of loneliness produced something.

Thanks Jenelle, for talking to me, too. It meant a lot, and helped a lot. I miss you.

Naked
exposed I suppose, but the word seems so cliché.
Naked
and yet no one is noticing, caring, contemplating.
Naked
because of the absence of response.
Naked
emotions etch themselves upon my skin, but they remain ignored.
Naked
and no need to cover up.


Naked and beautiful.
A foreign concept,
a language I never thought I would understand.
To move in my own skin, and not feel awkward or
ashamed of what was given at birth, and gained since
is joy.
“I’d like to be” is forgotten
Shame, likewise, is scarce to be found.
My skin smiles at the thought of being uncovered
and the art of my angles suddenly becomes clear.


I’m lost in the seams
of history, and the pages of my memory just keep on turning
Unbidden, a wind keeps on flipping through a picture book
of you.
And I just stand still, wondering why the people around me
move so fast.
Don’t they see me?
On top of a building, teetering
please catch me.
I never want to see you again
if I only see you
you don’t see me.