Thursday, May 29, 2014

Hunt

You feverishly hunt
for your lipstick
in the cavernous depths
of your handbag.
And you can
never find it
when you need it.
Like faith. Like love. 

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

On paper

My pen, he is selfish.
He will not write for you.
And he will not bend and
curve and dip and rise to
bring into being that which
you want from him.
He is deaf to your definitions.
Face to wall, he will refuse to
listen to expected expectations.
And he will forever remain in
one singular bull-headed way
a stubborn adolescent child.
The worth of his words
can be measured only in
the life that he has lived
and the lives that he has
come to know and feel.
Neither praises nor critiques
can justify or nullify his existence.
He exists only to witness
something broken being healed.
And that's all there is to it.