Self-inflicted
An autodidact in self-harm,
she gets hopes up, smitten, blushing.
Though not for her, she'll crave his charm.
His deflection-- cold, crushing.
She hates herself, her unchecked smarm.
Alarms and flags-- they mean nothing.
She'll run straight to, all good sense fled,
when they're her preferred color… red.
Bittersweet Dreams
She sleeps with me under the sheets,
A little ball of fur and joy,
Snoozing, curled up, warm and sweet,
She dreams of walks, her precious toy,
And when she dreams, she kicks her feet,
Chasing rabbits with her boy,
Whose dream will see him without mirth:
His dog's last day upon the earth.
Tomorrow the seagulls will fly
Tomorrow the seagulls will fly
Wings thrashing frantically, speeding
Under a restless, shifting sky
With nature and weather pleading
Hear their agonal, jagged cry
As they float, never retreating
Rule the wind and tame the tempest
Endeavor does make you greatest
Tomorrow the seagulls will soar
Aligned in a strong, rigid key
Hear the thick clouds' rambunctious roar
Though bound, each intimately free
Faster, feathers fall, ever more
Perhaps one will flurry to me
Subject to the wind yet reckless
In endeavor they are restless
Tomorrow the seagulls will float
Gracefully, in tune, in rhythm
Seen from land, sky, a little boat
Perceived in unending schism
And those who've seen earn right to gloat
For an unspoken truism:
All those who see seagulls take flight
Have lived and experienced their fight.