Those dreams, those prophecies, this....shock.
I tell you my feelings so you will know
because that is ALL that I can do.
I can never know yours, really.

want you so bad

I'm tearless. Hate that because
I feel a distance within myself from my self.

And there is no poem.
No appreciation of poetry.
No explanation of yin and yang
No training, no laugh
shared touching

Can I smear pain across a page like
finger paints,
like clumps of dung,
like a fallen pile of cut trees?

It is Christmastime,
this time.
The broken car, that's no surprise, but the
quartered heart,
unexpected.

In a parking lot, nose full of cool green,
noticing that everybody is liquid but me -
Me, I'm drained to dry
numbness my wish,
my Christmas wish.

© Barbara Bales 2000-2004 all rights reserved

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