To My Friends
Every little look you gave me
with your plastic little smiles and glazed eyes:
I get it now.
You lied.
I told you not to do it, to not hide
what you thought and felt.
But you didn't bother to listen.
You still did it.
Manicured little dreams,
pretty realities that are so empty--
They're crumbling all around you.
I tried.
Now you wonder why every look
is suspect, scrutinized in expectation;
But you can't say I didn't warn you.
I told you so.
A poem about clothing:
My Battlefield
I can see it, from where I'm sitting on my bed:
A single lifeless mass of knitted cloth and soil that seems
determined to crawl onto my side of the room.
I snarl at it, thinking to banish it with a thought,
But it remains, gloating in its filth as it toes the boundary.
Stupid sock.
