She wears her heart braided 'round her wrist;
a bohemian scent...
The old mare would lollop back to the gate
As if to say to me I cannot wait...
Oh how I wish I was Little Again.
Where all you had to worry about was...
Blasted
Mizzen mast nor portal...
Running up and down the street,
my face dirty, two odd feet...
I find that I am burdened,
by a weight that goes unseen...
Painted on city walls, in alleys, on trains,
Soaking poetic wisdom into our brains...
*This is a poem ( a Triolet) written about my fear...
Darkness crawls around they call it night...
Splashes of my creativity
spoken by words...
Thoughts killing
dreams, desires and hope...
I dabble my pen
into swarming letters...
Note to self: I'm lost.
I can't remember the things...