I listen to music. I dance.

I listen to music and I forget to write.

It doesn't bother me to be sitting in this public scene.

This life is a gift set to song.

I try to dance to it to be set free.

The first days of Autumn

It's cold.

An autumnal breeze cuts through my gray sweater

to chill my bones in spite of their fleshy protection.

There's moisture in the air.

I feel it as pin-pricks on the bare skin of my face.

I came outside to sit for the cold-

to feel the cold.

My empty emotions exuding

what nature is producing,

its frost a reflection of my

jaded thoughts.

I used to feel empathetically-

the warmth of a summer's kiss extended

to others in an understanding of connectivity.

I lost that feeling.

Blown out by the gale that this Fall

is beginning to produce regularly.

Pelting drops- large heavy doses

of cruelty lofted in the direction

of those around me.

Do not surround me.

For I will feel what you feel

but I want only to know my pain.

It is too soon to feel guilty for

speaking as an ass to you.

Too soon to feel happy for

rays of sun after autumnal gloom.

Sidewalks

I glare out the window. The room is dark; the lights are off. My roommates are out and the quiet smothers me. I set my alarm clock for four in the morning. The desk light flicks on, allowing for a distraction from the skyline that I am disgusted to say pleases me. I don't want to appreciate beauty.

I have no reason to be angry. The world has given me a position of privilege that should be cherished. Cherished... the word causes me to cringe.

I have always been told to cherish things. "Timmy," my mother would preach, " cherish your vegetables because other little children have no food." My father would remind me to cherish the education of my prestigious private school. They wanted me to cherish the opportunities that they never had as children of poor Spanish families living in the inner city. Even my priest would impose on me the virtue of cherishing. "Timothy," he said sitting behind the screen whose anonymity provided him with the arrogance to give instructions on life, "you must cherish the life God gave you." How am I to know what life he intended for me?

The quote tacked on the wall just visible behind the flat screen of an HP monitor says to, "Go confidently in the directions of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined." My best friend gave it to me. She doesn't understand that I have never imagined my life. This life of forced appreciation is foreign to her. She really does believe in it.

They don't understand it- not Christine or the psychologist or the priest or my parents. They don't understand why I'm not happy.

I get off of my rickety dorm chair to open the previously bolted window. They don't want you to get air. I'm staring again- staring at the lit skyscrapers and passing pedestrians. There are millions aside from me. Do they possess a sense of autonomy or are they suffocating in the smog of alien opinions?

The breeze is gentle enough not to feel like an intrusion. I gather it slowly, letting it swirl and swell in my chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. The only two life functions that have ever been fully under my control. In and out. I lift my eyes to the sky and imagine that the pinpricks of celestial gas are clearly visible. In- I close my eyes. Out- I lean out of the 10th story window. In- I step outside. Out- the only dream I've had is to die.

p.s. everything on the blog is fictional

Shut the doors. Blast the sound.

they couldn't understand

when there's so much feeling all I can do is dance

I shut the doors and blast the sound

I lose myself in music

letting others dictate how

Red Moleskin

red journal

deep and inviting

open my heart

hear my crying

red journal

soulful and wise

teach me my voice

guide now my pen

raindrops glisten on the window

there is no denying the power of poetry,

but i have lost the ability to write.

raindrops skirt the windowpanes i look through

at the nightlight of omaha's skyline.

the trees bow to an unexpected breeze

that could only be the result of a transaction.

my sleep for your ability to think-

i would gladly participate in that exchange

if somehow my sleep gave back

the ability to harness emotions.

if somehow i could feel light

tickling the grass of a dew drop morning.

sometimes the only way not to lose a poem is to publish it. I guess this means that I should update again. Has anyone missed me?

-PM