my poems are all autopsies,
but rarely postmortem,
every pen scratch the slow strangling of some fragment begging for mercy,
while a new fraction is agonizingly birthed in its place,
innocently awaiting its white-gloved examination
this shaky pencil scratches and claws at the persuasive paper,
a brittle, broken bird wing lifting and slapping itself against the emptiness,
line after desperately vacant line staring back, mockingly,
and I am stranded,
stuck at the end of the poor man’s queue
this lizard brain is powerless as it goes through the habitual motion of attempting to regurgitate something,
to manufacture anything,
for god’s sake
something like words make it to the page in jagged slices of shale,
crumbling at the weight of every second glance,
until finally peeling back their imposter costumes,
only to reveal soot covered vacant lines
what can I expect when,
instead of lead,
it’s only dust?
-image via Pixabay
sleepy eyes wake to salmon hue
sneaking between the window shades
inviting feet to follow, out
to savor what the gods have made
billowing cotton stretches the sky
as I breathe in the chilly air
and little paws dance on frosty grass
reluctant to leave his lair
warmth radiates in steamy wafts
from my favorite coffee mug
filled with the best pour-over blend
made for me, the perfect hug
thinking pad and clean white sheets
lay before me, calling me home
I sink to inky depths, welcomed
direction completely unknown
Heart Breathings 