Summer Air

A warm breeze blows in tangled hair

It smells of summer nights, warm and fair

Whispering memories in her ear

Of lightening bugs and fishing bells jingling

Swing dancing and people singing

Guitar picking and fireside drinking

Sun-tanned skin and night’s cool wind.

Whiskey Poetry

You’re drinking in the whorehouse tonight. I’m writing poetry: whiskey words and tear stained ink. I’m a dumbass for thinking I deserve more than I need. But whose there to blame when it comes down to inked up words and whiskey tears spilling down my cheeks.

Unfinished

I’ve thought about calling you up, but I change my mind. We said our goodbyes and now is not the time. It’s lonely out here on these Wyoming plains, but I’m the one who ran so I’m the one to blame. Amidst missing you, I love it out here. I can only hope that one day it’ll be your truck that I hear; hell, I’d be content with your voice on the telephone. Just anything to know that I left a mark like the one you left on my heart.

Pixie Dust

I break my heart to find the words to fill these white spaces. It’s an addiction

to the possibilities,

to the loss,

to the way it makes me feel,

to the way the words fill my head and swirl round and round until I write them down.

These poems aren’t built from pixie dust and glitter, they form from broken hearts and sweet things turned bitter.