Sore Arms

Writer’s block isn’t so much a block

Or a traffic jam

Or word you can’t remember

It’s more of a rag, long dry

That you wring between your hands over

And over again

(Until your arms hurt)

Without one drop to show for it

You happen to be very thirsty

But all you have is sore arms

And memories

Of when that rag was dripping wet

It isn’t so much a block

As an excuse to throw your pen across the room

And go eat something fattening

Only the Good...

The feeling begins as a small ache in the heart

And then sinks to sit, not uncomfortably, inside the stomach

It isn’t expected,

But not exactly unexpected either

Like a friend come to visit,

Who didn’t call ahead

But who you kind of figured was coming

It is a weight, and an ache

But not quite a pain

It’s being grown up in a way

The reason adults don’t smile quite as carefree as you did

On the playground

It doesn’t hurt, it’s just heavy

It’s sad

Not the sad where you almost cry

The sad where you know it deserves tears

But you also know it’s not worth it

The feeling comes when you realize

The world is unfair

Not a selfish realization

Not that you won’t always get what you want

Not that some people have more of what you want

It’s when you realize

The world isn’t cruel to those who deserve it

It hurts those who don’t

Don’t

Don’t deserve pain

It’s a shame that settles

In the stomach

And sits like an old friend

Who didn’t call ahead

As She Posts A Poem

Her foot's falling asleep
The prickling sensation increasing
Staring at the TV
Trying to catch the dead body breathing
Cracking her knuckles
Stifling a yawn
Sipping the diet coke
She's grown dependent on

Nursery Rhyme

Mother goose laid a golden egg

Which Jack and Jill went chasing after

The mouse running up the clock

Spotted a Bitsy Spider in the rafters

Little Miss Muffet never was good at making friends

The Dish and Spoon were the talk of the town

Humpty Dumpty was trying to tell Bo Peep's lamb

The sky was falling down

Dear Men,

No need to open the door
Or pull out a chair
I don't need fancy dresses
Or fine chandeliers
I'm an independent women!
But, a word of advice-
I may not need those things
But, they sure would be nice

Dreaming

Monkey do what monkey see
Spectacular slivers of insanity
Falling, and flying and feeling free
Meeting a mad-hatter
I'm told I'm late for tea
I rest when I sleep
But not when I dream

Under the Cover of Christ

Her fuzzy blanket offered brief security
Against bed-time monsters who faded into obscurity
Monsters were replaced with overwhelming humanity
She found a lasting blanket, it was called Christianity

When she was little she kept the monsters at bay
But even under the covers, they never really went away
The protection was temporary, unlike the saving the grace
Not just protected, through her Messiah she was saved