Tired.
So tired.
With no energy
For writing.
How can this be?
I feel empty
Without poems.

The season is beautiful.
I'll miss the boys of summer
When autumn brings sunset.
For now,
I will enjoy the beauty
Of friendship and sights.

His arm coils and springs,
Fist sharply curled into a sphere
Until the last moment
As it releases the ball.
It snaps back with the catch,
Rebound pulling it back,
Rewinding for yet another throw.

I'll never write a poem to this spark,
But I'll wax poetic on the unborn flame.

Spiraling Frame

He leans forward in the chair,
Shoulder-blade curved like a bow
As it presses away from the curl
Of his spine like a lazy cat
With his arms composed of waves,
Made of slopes that roll onto each other
Overlapping and easing together-

He straightens his spine,
But the concaves and convexes remain,
Scattered over his spiraling frame.

I miss my friends
With a deep pang
That nothing but
Their company
Can resolve.

I had something to say,
Yet because I did not write it down,
I forgot it
In the shifting of tabs
And the passage of time.

Stretched out on the roof,
Staring at the stars,
Torn between terror and awe
As one foot bleeds,
The knees sting,
And fireworks in a cacaphony
All about the neighborhood.

Forcing out the words
That I can get better,
Stay in shape.
Maybe these poems
Will fall on their faces
And I'll be embarrassed
I ever put down these words,
But when I write
A better poem,
I'll be glad
I practiced now.

I love the summer sun.
While I might not love to be outside,
I love the way it warms the soul.
It's heat remains long past the night.
It overwhelms beyond belief,
But drives us on.