These are on here by request, although I really have no idea how to write poetry and I know nothing about form or structure. Basically these are just amateur musings.


Cold Night
Ice forms on the tiny hairs the cover my forearms and my fingertips painfully swell.
My nose refuses to take in any warmth and so remains damp and chilled.
Under a blanket my legs cross, hugging each other for heat.
The frown of my mouth offers little comfort to the rest of my face.
Blood passes through my veins like an icy stream; I can feel its struggle against that which slows its path.
My stomach and ass are jolly, like alcoholics in the snow. Fat insulates their merriment and lulls them into a daze.
My hair no longer feels as though it is part of me and with each shift of wind, tries desperately to flee.
My soul enjoys the cold, and I am pleasantly cross.





Journey
I tried to paint but was unsuccessful, lacking the will to try again.
I played the violin for a week, but traded it in for a pen.
I took some time to write, for journalistic dreams, but became and actress and activist and soon found other means.
In following where my heart leads, I believe I get an A. Enjoying where it takes me, is something hard to say.
Shoot for the moon they tell you, but what happens when you do?
Once all the cheese is eaten, your soul craves something new.
Jack of all trades and mistress of none, is something of my goal.
In the journey I find pleasure, and on the trip I bare my soul.






Poet
What is a poet?
Does he use his pen as a scalpel,
to cut open his chest with precision?
Is his imagination the morphine,
That allows him to handle the pain?
Does he leave his beating heart exposed,
And sketch it out on paper?
Or does he stab it with his quill,
And scribble in blood and guts all of his raw emotions
Until his soul can bare it no more.

Or maybe the world cuts him open,
Each day tears him a bit more.
Forcing him to be vulnerable,
Leaving his body broken and sore.
And with his pen he stitches,
New sutures verse by verse.
Left untreated without his pen,
The pain would only grow worse.

Is it his insides trying to burst out,
Or is it how he makes sense of the world?


Where?
Where is the one who is strong enough,
To rescue the girl from the dragon?
She will not cut his hair.
She will not try to deceive him.
The girl will make him laugh.
The girl will find his socks.
He will lead and she will follow.
Together they will be happy.