i am the string

that hangs on the end of your sleeve

whispering for you to rip it away

quickly

harmlessly

painlessly

no problem, i say

i’ll be gone before you know it

but when you finally give in

i

u

n

r

a

v

e

l

Oh no! Don’t tell me I’m nothing -

something lives inside my head,

my black eyes have seen it all.

I leave my calling card on doorsteps,

scattering echoes of wind as proof

that I am a new beginning, waiting

for the fog on the deserted road

to develop wings and begin to fly.

I bare my tainted pen, becoming

something in shadows climbing

over empty spaces, leaving space

for something echoing in soup bowls.

Feed me! Feed my emptiness of soul -

move the migraines in my cloudy vault,

follow footprints into charisma of dawn.

I may mean nothing but I am your world

your empty spot, just waiting to be filled.

I am like a Faulkner novel... if you can put up with the poor punctuation, the occasional run on sentence, and a general long-windedness then you might find the golden nuggets hidden amongst the weeds.

“Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.”

- William Faulkner

On the outside, I am mundane

Within my depths, sheer chaos reigns.

Like the others, lined up neatly

Hiding dirty secrets sweetly.

I am that place where things are swept,

Bits and bobs and knowledge kept.

I can help you find that thing you need,

Or prick your finger, watch it bleed.

Into my universe things are smashed,

But don’t you ever call it trash.

Ours was but a metaphor

Jeweled allegories spun

Symbols of a tale, its score

Plays on comparison

You, a mythic fable

My first love, figuratively

Faux fur, passed off as sable

Worn out with analogies

You plagiarized the legends

Silk bouquets with sterile seeds

Word paintings you’d rescind

When my blind eyes read empty deeds

First off ... I never met a three or a five but I have "met a four".

Compare myself to all things used,

aged, well worn and torn.

Still there are uses for said things,

if you can find any.

So me thinks,

there has to be a use for me.

But ... what is a use?

The world is like a library. Every person has their own story.

I'm like the tiny classic novel in the corner, with a green-leather cover, hidden by the colorful YA novels and Graphic Novels.

You may notice me, but ignore me.

If only you had opened me. You would have learned so much more.

I’m liquorice

The classic kind

Dark and bold

Lingering but not loquacious

Biting but not bitter

Sugared but never saccharine

A half-forgotten flavor

You may not like me as I am

After all

I’m an acquired taste