so dishonest is our modesty
nature wears clothes only when she pleases
is it we she is trying to impress?

are a tree's roots like her dry cracked feet?
and the soil some socks that refuse to
betray her secrets of self consciousness

do not all of the spirits in heaven congregate together?
only god could afford so many acres of the sky.

leaves are not commiting suicide when the feel yellow,
but are going to try their luck at independence
sacrificing themselves so fresh, young leaves may replace them

when the old ash passes near the fire
it can not help but beg to come back
it is choked up with the bitterness of it's exile
it doesn't consider the fire may not have
the same flame that it once did

the abandoned bicycle feels no pian, only anticipation to excite a new owner, who at first was incredulous due to 'free' scribbled on a windblown sign

maybe never will be forgotten
and only when belated will your
inconsiderations be considered

why aren't there four days in a week, like there are four weeks in a month? or four months in a year?

the poor no longer understand,
because they are no longer poor,
the find their prior state of mind undesirable
when juxtaposed with the mystique of wealth and happiness.

love is not invincible, ours in particular
as hard as i try to revive it, there's no hope
the spark is dying out
neither of us are wholly to blame for the oxygen deprivation
extinction. all of that loss is hard to swallow

the sea's laughter is maniacal, you can't forget about the danger you sensed. it's all fun and games, until somebody loses their life. those waves won't stop for you any sooner than the time is takes to forgive them for their treachery.

he who has never waited suffers more than the waiting, for he has never experienced the treasures worth waiting for. he who is always waiting suffers more than he who has never waited for anyone' he lives in the past, therefore creating no place to live.

december tripped over january and is now the month that falls before february.

your eye's showers last long hours
you have power, jump off those towers
but you stand and cower, more vulnerable than a sack of flour

they've lost me. you can't fathom my terror at not knowing where to go from here. I don't know where i am. no one's holding the scoreboard now. they don't see me. there i am.

my wrists were bound just tightly enough to forsake the hope of escape. i'm trapped here. I remain in the window watching buried time.

i must tell the turtle that i am slower than he
too stubborn to give him the satisfaction,
but not too stubborn to admit it
point out his flaws, there's a good distraction
let's hope obtaining his repect is no longer the goal

is it kindness or the mask of kindness?
do they matter our intentions, to anyone but karma?
my mask is the margarine on your whole wheat toast; despite what's underneath, the goodness is spread.