It will be strange to see,
at day’s end,
rhymes and lines of so much creativity
honestly emoting again.
To know of the fantasies
that were, throughout the day,
laid down in visions and dreams
because a romantic had something to say.
To read of the beliefs
he allowed himself to feel,
but at the end see the griefs
he could no longer conceal.
And then to learn, as day faded to night,
it was mused deception. Out goes his light.
I’m narcissistic?/
That’s what she said! But it’s my/
mirror I’m viewing!
I took a big chance./
Thinking she was serious,/
I wrote lots. She’s not.
I wonder how much the/
women on the boulevard /
charge for a good hug.
Her late night text said: /
“I want you.” I was happy./
Then I learned: Wrong guy.
I wasn’t going to publish this one because it’s too painful … but a friend said I should.
I ask if we can talk.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.
I’m sorry, I’m busy.
Not tonight, I’m tired. I’m sorry.
Not tonight, I’m thinking. I’m sorry.
Not now, maybe later. I’m sorry.
I’m at my folks. I’m sorry.
I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.
I don’t feel like talking. I’m sorry.
I’m caving. I’m sorry.
Now is not a good time. I’m sorry.
I’m busy. I’m sorry.
I’m doing something else. I’m sorry.
I’m tired. I’m sorry.
I’m sore. I’m sorry.
I’m sleepy. I’m sorry.
I’m busy or I would. I’m sorry.
I’m not feeling up to it.
I’m not in the mood.”
What everyone tells me she’s saying is:
“Thanks, but no thanks … sorry!” Or
“I’m not that into you.”
I just wanted to talk. I’m sorry.
I brought enegy,/
laughter, passion, and new views./
She brought merging peace.
When you want to be/
with someone, hours are minutes /
and never enough.
Pioneer daughter,/
think of wastelands, then take steps/
into the unknown.
Or
Pioneer daughter:/
Think of wastelands, then join me/
probing the unknown.
He who was nervous,/
given courage to speak up,/
roars for what’s wanted.