drewTM

Like a large igloo dropping

on Piccadilly, London,

You came at dusk, bringing

tiny shards of memories.

Myriad thorny thoughts, forming

A splashing, crashing cloud.

Your cotton-soft face, showing

the street light, yellow on blue eyes,

described the deal you were wanting

to make: I protect your fancy free wings

from the world’s trying to clip them,

and I get to spoon with you again.

I don’t think so.

One day, Jeshica (a girl of interest) came over (not even to see me) and mentioned being hungry. In passing, I was able to offer her a bowl of Marshmallow Mateys, and was very excited about the opportunity. It was silly how much pleasure I took in the fact that she was enjoying MY breakfast cereal--and then a thought hit me. Why don't I take so much pleasure in the small gifts I am able to offer to God? He enjoys the things I do that reflect his image or are obedient, so why can't I see those things the same way? I'll be much happier and more joyful if I ever can.

see below if you think you should, and feed back.

this has now become my "too hot for Xanga" blog.

I'll tell you something, earless lady,
but you'll never hear it.
Examine this with your gaping eye-holes.
because you clearly can't even see.
I could play you like an electric organ--
I could make your body sing.

Arching melody would explode from your back.
You would writhe and reach for the elusive resolution.
Your eyes would widen and snap shut
like they're gasping for air, like they can't keep up.
I'd press notes from your skin that you never knew were there.
I'd strike chords in your belly that would make your heart stop.

Now you'll never know what you're missing out on, though,
but someone else will know, and we will laugh at you together.
But her laughter will freeze to glittering shards in the air
and flashing fall down to prick and garnish her skin.
And the sound it makes will be like a candy rainbow
having sex with a snowstorm, in a bed of rosebushes.