Sleeping Pills

And that is why I am tired

Because I don’t get enough sleep at night

Because I think way too much about things that don’t matter

Because there is so many other interesting things to do

Like read, write, fall in love, and maybe even break a heart

Because sleep is generally a waste of time

Because sleeping pills no longer work for me

Because that one show no longer airs in the day

Though it ruled the 90s and my childhood

Because the man on the moon is much happier than man on the sun

Because I drink far too much coffee just to keep me awake in class

Because at night the freaks come out

And the freaks are much more enjoyable than the squares

Because there is people out there dying for nothing

Because my pet rooster tends to forget what time the day begins

Because my mind twists and turns like rollercoasters

And I am deadly afraid of rollercoasters

Because it’s always daytime somewhere

Because there is something wrong with me

Because Sleep no longer desires my company

Although it lusts after me in the day time

Because there is people out there living for nothing

Because sleep seems far too similar to the end

Because I am full of contradictions

That never seem to leave me be

About "I Need A Mute Button."

Well I was supposed to write about a memory as though it was happening to me now. So I wrote about a memory of me being embarrassed and feeling like an idiot.

I Need A Mute Button

I should stop talking

Become a mute

Just sit here

Doodling

Cats and Dogs

Watching the Squirrels pass

Catching him in the corner

Of my eye

I should stop talking

Stick to writing

Just look at the pages

Laugh at his comments

Laugh at her comments

Laugh, laugh, and laugh

Become a perfect example

Of what all idiots should do

And never speak another word

I should stop talking

Poem of my week:

from If Not, Winter, Sappho translated by Anne Carson

I don't know what this is.

I am a cynic

But I need someone

Something

I am depressed

But I need happiness

Smiles

I am a mess

But I need order

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Oh, apparently my poetry teacher really likes my poems, because she wants me to submit ALL OF THEM to the college's magazine. She also told me to wait 'till the last minute to turn them in, because the class is on Monday (which coincidentally is also the last day to submit things). I hate turning things in on the last minute. I like turning things in on the last FEW minutes.

About 4 Balloons

I pretty much had to go for a walk, and then write a poem about it.

4 Balloons

Confidently I walked toward nothing

Well actually I was going to the thrift store

But my head was up high

Almost up there with my favorite things

The playful clouds

At first I ignored my surrounding

Then I remembered

“I have to write a poem”

At that moment the world around me

Became real

The trees became humans

The houses elephants

The wind airplanes

And I kept on walking

As they followed me along

Tied to one elephant were 4 balloons

Reminding me I was really

Truthfully

Honestly

Alone

But I kept on walking,

Anyway

Distant Friend

I don’t know you very well

But I want to

I'm just afraid of everything you are

Of everything we could be

Though I know it might not happen

For now you are a friend

A distant friend

A new friend

Someone that could be more

But might just break me

Might just destroy what is left of me

But I am someone old

Only new to you

Someone who could destroy you

Crush you

Throw you on the floor

Demolish you

Yet we could become something

Beautiful

Amazing

Perfect

Something like a poem

A perfect sonnet

A perfect relationship

A perfect something

Anything

About "The Book"

Well the assignment for this week was to read these very descriptive pieces of poetry, and write something similar. I had no idea what to write so I ended up writing a fictional poem about a book. Not sure if I did it right, but I sure did try.

The Book

The book sits in a lonely state. Waiting for someone to come, pick it up, and just indulge in the reality inside.

The book that has fallen on the floor after someone chose another that was underneath. It has been ignored, skipped, and once again deserted. It does not pout, it does not cry. It just waits. See this book is older than all the others. It knows how to wait. It waited in a bookstore. It waited on a shelf. It waited in a thrift shop. It waited in a stack, and now it just waits on the unvacuumed floor. Next to it sits a hair clip, and by that an orange strand of string.

This book would not be so lonely if its owner would give it a chance, pick it up, and look inside. There she or he would find a world remarkable. A world of humor and wit, and of a wonderful romance. Nothing cliché. Nothing like that Twilight that the owner once so fond of. Something truthful, but for now it waits.

Since January is over, the February edition of 6 tales forced my story out.

And now it is in the archives aka here.