Read the Label

“Not for human consumption,”
I read the small print to myself.
If one’s got anything but foolish gumption
I suppose it should be left upon the shelf.

But people offer pennies
The poor, misguided lot
They’ll even beg me pretty please —
For the label reads, “My Thoughts.”

Machiavellian

I twist myself in knots:
My rope, these aching thoughts;
The maddening echoes I have wrought
By eclipsing every light around.

I call myself so very clever;
I know that nothing lasts forever,
And so to all trapdoors I pull the lever
And listen for the falling sound.

But there’s no tresspasser standing;
No enemy there is dancing,
And I can spend my life demanding
For the culprit to be found.

Yet still there’s something missing
And though the well is filled with wishing
It’s as well as rod-less fishing
And I fear that I’ll be drowned.

Letters

My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.

I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.

They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?

Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.

My Raven

My raven taps upon my window;
He bears his message on the wind, 

Which comes in all aghast, 

Bringing memories from the past, 

The moment that I let it in.

My raven raps upon the window
But refuses to come in
Old wise bird!
You tease with vague words
In true Poe fashion.

My raven sits upon the window —
What an idle conversation!
For what he came for, he never tells
But he brings with him ice crystals
And the wind, still swirling.

 

Too Much

Everybody talks too much:
The noise in my head,
It goes too fast —
But I want to hear;
I want to understand.
Nobody gets what they want:
Everybody talks too much,
And I can’t hear a word that’s said.
Just a vague screaming:
The noise in my head.

Dare To Dream

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There are days I dare to dream,
Then tell myself it’s not to be:
“Foolish girl!” I’ll reprimand;
“Yes, you: For that is all they see.”

True or not, that’s what it seems;
And what else will it ever be
If this foolish girl
Doesn’t dare to dream?

Change

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Does the butterfly understand,
Or still see itself as a caterpillar?
Does it note the change at hand,
Or is time perception’s killer?

Does the butterfly look back
At the caterpillar and say,
“Oh I remember that,
When I thought that way.”?

When it looks back, does it remember
That it couldn’t always fly?
And I wonder if it ever
Can point out the reasons why.