The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Wishing the whistling from the next room would hit
As red light, give way to nodding. My feet
feel lonely with only each other and my eyes flit
Through the darkness, owl-like. 'I am body heat,'

I say. 'I can do this, radiate alone.'
I ignite my pride and roll onto my back.
I can still smoke up there on my throne,
But for once I'd like to kick back and relax.
Down here I can be, just part of the night.
Free to sit still, to smoke and to cry.

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I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.

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