Pocket Pennies

What is this? A rhetorical question that I never intended anyone to answer. It is made up of road trips and tear stained shoulders. It's the ability to look through virgin eyes and feel no pain. It is...someone elses ideal of forever. Let me cry for a minute please.



I can feel it now. The pressure to understand the unknown. The hurt of the unloved and the shadow of the sinner. Sins. It's all I'm made of yet I can taste your grace. Please rain on me in such a way that your wine will leave me lifeless and pure. It all seems like an illusion if you ask me.



You. Where is your understanding? If time is all we have now, you've wasted it on someone else. If I am the thread that locks in memories then I guess you've cut me free. Why then, am I...not free?



Rhetoric. It messes with my head.



Bitter. The taste won't leave me because I know that your intentions are flawed.



Prove me wrong, friend. This song will be sleeping on your doorstep...

**Don't Wait Up**

It's 3:08 and I feel as if sleep has given up on me, once again. It's a warm night for October and my head is cluttered with the sounds of the broken down fan placed strategically in the corner of the room. I feel halfway between a dream and consciousness, my mind overthinking every breath. Dawn is not the time for poetry. The sun doesn't hear these ramblings that roll effortlessly off my not-so-innocent tongue. And if he does (assuming he's a he), he sure as hell doesn't answer back.



I've always felt the guilt associated with a sinner. I'm not half as strong as my mother, but have inherited her concern to become an obligatory someone. I feel no need to write sonnets about oppression that reflect nothing of the life I've lived. My depth is far deeper than the man who holds my hand, and a shade brighter than the gloss wetting my lips. I love my lips.



Dew forming on each individual blade of grass, I feel the weight of the night close in. It's amazing how all these words and phrases suspend above me; taunting me into submission. I want so desperately to use them all before this moment passes me by. Another day lost and forgotten.



The sunrise dances through my window, I turn off the fan. Goodnight.

Murdoch

Twisting and turning, mind reeling. I am 25 years old feeling no younger than 60. The days melt into one long succession of broken promises and retracked phrases. I'm sorry; maybe in our next life. I keep thinking that the days are getting shorter, when in all actuality, I'm just losing time. I find reminders of the minutes etched all over old photographs, thankyou cards, memories. The taunting kind that literally cannot be denied...just endured. Fake. I can't help but taste the bitter irony of it all. All things considered, it IS ironic; at my expense. It's all just a game, however, right? And they tell me, before I know it, the season will be over.