birthday eve.

It’s my birthday eve and I don’t know how to take it.

Laugh or Cry. Sigh or Sing. I’m almost 25 and I didn’t die.

I don’t know how I made it this far. Where I choose to

Place myself in the realm of life, others like me haven’t

Made it this far. Hence why I don’t know how to feel.

Should I be happy? This is a long time and more to come.

But the others, they didn’t make it, should I still feel for them?

Twenty Whole Five is a weird number to me. Sounds like a

Place where laundry is folded, and dinner is served.

Don’t take my mac n cheese and beer away. I will still be the

Weird, old me. I just don’t know how to feel on the outside,

About this one.

today's major mooooddd.....

i LOVE bees.

Before us, lies the carcass of a bumblebee.

Eyes and all, nothing saddens the human heart like a dead bee.

Beautifully they fly, while pollinating the sky with magic and new life.

smaller than a pocket poem.

Walnuts dancing on chairs, with berries and birds,

                The air is delicate with hints of orange and ginger.

Christmas night is lovely, while the fire crackles and the children giggle.

194something.

“I will be home before Christmas”

                The little boy yelled.

As he reached in his pocket,

His golden watch glistened

And the time read:

                                February 9^th, 1941.

“He will be home before Christmas”

                His papa chuckled.

The train raced on, into the crisp

Evening glow.

don't know anymore.

Toe Jam, Coke Hands, Long Nails.

Sheets that are dancing in the summer breeze.

Colors from all directions, the room is spinning.

Now all I hear are the worms singing.

time.

Somewhere with hair,

Somewhere with bears.

The old wicker rocking chair sings.

Tonight will be the night, once the

Harvest Moon meets Midnight.

silver spoons.

Bones, and stones

And little men toes.

An A in math means

Nothing, if you can’t

Rhythm.

121618.

Today and tomorrow all seem the same

Watching the rain turn sideways and

The birds sneeze. Yellow Jackets upon

The bees. The breeze, it’s nice. And I

Can finally see.

December Torr presents a tiny pocket poem series...

I guess so

Don’t feel right here anymore. Socks before shoes, 

But I can’t remember the last time we kissed.

The front door is unlocked for all the neighbor’s

Ghosts. Clouds roll by, sun peaks through pine

Trees, the sunlight hits the pine needles. In a 

Glistening, kind of winter day way. Wishing for

Thoughts of tomorrow, today. Wait for the

Full moon, and you shall see your answers.

I can’t play the guitar.

To be a queen, to fit in a shoe, to live on a hill.

Bushes of berries and berries of blue all around.

Wishing for days that exist with colors of love.

I wish I could change the world for you.

Come close, with a warm heart and two hands.

 A Fly Tattoo.

Cold knuckle days, where the thick fire glows. The whistle blows, the tea is ready.

The icicles glisten in the moon light glow, the geese dance atop the blue, blue pond.

Where branches quiver in the winter wind, the birds rest up all season long.

Long Nails.

Down the road

                The old man runs

                                Stories of nuns

                                                Stories of guns

                                                                The world is ugly

                                                                                Now hold your breath

                                                                                                Say a prayer for us

                                                                                                                Down the road

                                                                                                                                The old man still runs

j.

once i realized the dog could talk-
all went down the drain from this point on.
the dog can talk, the fish can walk, the baby can run.
the fog is thick, the dish is sick, the cow can open the door.
the hog is hot, squish the fish between his toes, look for the full moon.

can't put my finger on it- just yet. 

here we go again feeling like a different me.
the floor seems the same from here- but
something has changed. maybe the way the
wind blows, the way the trees shake.
something is different here. not all things
are the same. the way the wheels roll
backwards or the moonlight against the
clear goose pond. nothing but a fly moves.
something is different around here now.
i just haven't had the time to discover what.

half

i wake up feeling like a different kind of me.
objects seem smaller, the world seems bigger.
something here is different as i sip away my fears
in a hot lemon ginger tea. the world is different
behind green eyes, with nails and hammers. the
world seems brighter, happier.

Mini Monday Poem (MMP)

I am a flea, so free.

Riding on the backs of dogs and cats.

Oh, I am a flea, so free.

I am me, so free, so free.

Wings spread open, new things to see.

I am oh so free.

i know i'm a few days late but.....GOD DAMNNNNNNNN HOZIER 

9101: November.

One day I woke up and I felt like a man.

My voice was deeper than the Atlantic and

I had a beard. One day I woke up and I felt

Like a lady. Lipstick on, ruby red and

I had curly hair. One day I woke up and I

Felt like a cat. Whiskers reaching from

Ear to ear and my food in a bowl right

Next to my water. I’ve been feeling

A lot different lately.

Age makes no sense at all.

Sometimes, these days  that are supposed to make me older, 

Actually make me younger.

Child of the earth, my 25 year old self finds herself going back in time.

Nothing makes sense, being a grown up sucks. 

But being a silly little kid, is the only way to be, sets me free.

It’s interesting how I grow younger, as my age grows older.

Things don’t make sense, but the way I’m laughing, like a little girl again,

I’m happier than ever.

DEEP

Nothing is scarier than feeling.

Once you realize you can control what you feel, life can kind of make sense.

When a song comes on and you burst into tears, you are feeling the song.

You understand that song, that time, as if nothing else exists besides your human soul and that song.

Sometimes the words other times the melodies. Some people feel so deep.

Deeper than roots can grow, deeper than the mountains whole.

We can pull the ocean waves back and forth and still feel it.

Don’t give up on yourself, nothing is wrong, this is you, this is life.

You are special if you can feel and understand what you feel.

Don’t become weak, when things seem scary, stand up tall, and plant your roots.

You can feel the sun’s heat, the moon’s light, love only deeper.

As the current takes you, sometimes it’s stronger than before, but don’t shake like a winter’s tree branch, just follow what you feel and let it be.

1038

The meaning of this life is whole and full.

Take only what you’ll need, leave some for the others.

The place where your soul sleeps at night, that’s what we call your home.

Wake up every morning, take all your trees and bees and scream towards the land.

Hear my soul

I can feel you in my mountains,

Blue, blue, blue.

When the sun rises, I know it’s you.

Through stars, I can still hear you.

Hear your soul, as it reaches out

For mine, the moon blinds me.

I can feel you in my mountains,

Blue, blue, blue.

Winding mountain trail.

Take me by my hand, fragile and weak.

As the river races, to meet the sparrows,

Only here in this room, we dance. Dance

Slowly, sway back and forth. Follow me,

As the music fills our souls, only we exist.

Loud as birds singing, the room begins

To turn into night. The stars fill the sky.

Believe me when I say my love never

Ends, it’s all for you. My light is on and

It’s past midnight. Trying to find myself

Through this day, through these months,

Through this year. I can see you at the

End of every tunnel. Bring your soul

And fresh water for me.

I need anything

I can get.

mood all day today is hozier~

I couldn't utter my love when it counted, but I'm singing like a bird about it now and i couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted but I'm singing like a bird about it now.....

When I visit the Cemetery, it’s always a Sunday. 

If you go to the cemetery on a Monday, you will regret it.

Mrs. Jones will be there, crying her heart out, like she has

For the past 22 years. She acts as if her husband just died.

He passed long ago, before the trees saw green leaves,

Before the rivers swallowed the woods whole. Every god

Damn Monday, Mrs. Jones will be there. If you go to the

Cemetery on a Tuesday, you will regret that. Mr. Harper

Will be there, praying at the foot of his daughter’s grave.

While the white lilac weep beside her, her father keeps

On praying. For reasons only he knows, the yellow sun

Will never glow. At least not on this cemetery anymore.

If you go to the Cemetery on a Wednesday, you’ll regret it.

Mrs. DaDalt and Ms. Susan will be there. These two

Ancient grandmothers walk their little dogs around the

Cemetery every Wednesday. While one has her curlers

Still in, the other chain smokes. I suggest you wait to

Visit. If you go to the cemetery on a Thursday, you will

Regret it right away. You will meet the landscape crew.

He is also known as, Creepy Richard. He doesn’t shower

For what looks like two weeks at least. The man wears the

Same overalls and flannel shirt, and he has no front teeth.  

And his hair looks like a silver wire brush, and snake tongues.

He has one glass eye and doesn’t speak English, that is Creepy

Richard. If you go to the cemetery on Friday, you will regret it.

Every Friday is Funeral Day. They have funerals only on Fridays.

You don’t want to be a part of someone you don’t know. I

Suggest you wait to visit the Cemetery. If you go to the Cemetery 

On Saturday, I know you’ll regret that. The Church people 

Come by and they bless every stone and every grave until

Sundown. Their generosity to the dead is nice, but don’t visit 

The Cemetery on Saturdays. On Sundays we visit the Cemetery. 

The beginning of the week or the end for some. The Cemetery

Is quiet as a library and as lonely as a black heart.

But no one will bother you on a Sunday, in the Cemetery.

When I visit the Cemetery, it’s always a Sunday.