pain feels like sand grinding teeth
in the sleeping tent, sealing nerves
from every vestige of decency.
hopes become debris: nomadic tribes;
shifting dunes of hyperbolic-breasts
under a tramontane thrusting south.

relief is after-the-fact despite
the means: water and grit;
palpable to the heart like
cracked mouths that bathe;
broken bodies asleep.
~

Deep. And true.

thanks. she's still loose and needs adjusting. i'll play with her awhile.

Your writings are all she's?

this one is.

and yet another, which used to be entitled, "hate", which has now totally evolved into what it was meant to be.

in writing, sometimes it's important to ride the wave. write out of pure emotions and raw energy that's provided when the muse strikes. sometimes at least two dozen pieces, be they poems or art, can come out of such an event. by the time the wave crashes, the poet/artist is spent. it looks like they've been on a two week drunk from lack of sleep and bad eating habits, and many times, don't know the meaning of a hairbrush. it's important to let everything else go when this happens. except, of course, what you can't let go, like work.

isn't this fun?