Night breathes
its peace in
shimmering air
dusted with winter.
.
Night breathes
its silence in
rustling wishes
between sheets.
.
Night breathes
an invitation in
a lingering look
over the shoulder.
.
Night breathes
a promise in
peace,
silence,
invitation.
Thanks for the compliment,
but I’m not interested.
.
You seem like a nice guy,
and some girl will be lucky
to have you,
but I’m not interested.
.
Look,
it’s like this,
to be honest,
I’m kind of repelled by you,
your breath is rank,
you have an unpleasant body odor
that is not masked by that cologne,
(which, by the way, I think
I’m allergic to)
your hair hasn’t been washed
in way too long
and the pustules erupting on your
forehead and your emaciated form,
do nothing to attract me.
The state of your clothing
suggests a negative cash flow.
So you see, I’m not interested.
I don’t need a Chippendale
or a millionaire,
but a little effort on your part
would help your cause.
.
I’m not a bitch, buddy,
I’m just not interested.
Kill the critic:
let him drown in the
flow of your words.
Kill the critic:
let him sear in the
molten eruption
from the core of you.
Kill the critic:
let him smother
gasping against the tide
of your creativity,
.grasping at the emptiness
that was your insecurities.
Kill the critic:
be free.
.
.
NB: I do not advocate murder of anything but the inner voice that tells you that you’re inadequate. Your inner critic has no business in your writing head-space. You can’t edit a blank page.
I love you high
I love you low
I love you near
I love you far
I love you shallow
I love you deep
I love you awake
I love you asleep
I love you now
I love you then
I love you forever
and ever
Amen.
That indelicate,
audacious hat
is either affectation
or jaunty celebration.
No one wears hats
as giddy as that
without expection
of societal reprobation.
Folks bristle at
such frivolous hats,
set in bold flirtation
against societal fixation.
It’s true. But THAT
astonishing, stupedous hat,
deserves an ovation,
from the entire nation.
Yes,
you said,
We will.
Yes,
you said,
I will.
Yes,
you said,
We should.
Yes,
you said,
I could.
Yes,
you said,
We would.
Yes,
you said,
I do.
Pieces of sky
fall upon flowers
and flatten summer.
Sky in pieces
weeping and whispering
bemoans gone sun.
Pieces of sky
crack away and fall
flaming to forest.
Sky in pieces
watching and waiting
passes in sighs
by peace.
Shawn L. Bird 