poem

APRIL 2004

Late at night, she gets quiet
Full of memories hanging so close--in the air
To taste-- or to smell
And choke on with the rising sun...
Late at night-- she gets so quiet,
Forcing smiles from beneath this surface,
Only half her broken thoughts
She's wondering-- can she trust you?
[[No, can she REALLY trust you?]]
You take time to pause, and think...
And ten o'clock marks the changing of the tides
From Dr. Jekyll-- to-- Mr. Hyde
Perfect lips trembling with fear,
She's begging you-- to hold her
And wash away her insecurities
The ones she swears she doesn't have.
And now he's gone...
She gets so quiet...
And she feels so alone...
Always wondering what she's worth
What you're willing to prove-- to her
And though she misses him
more than she can bear sometimes...
You're her attractive distraction
She needs something--
Somebody real.
Though tempted by your sweet facade
Of strong arms-- and soothing words--
She spends her quiet nights alone.
There's so much more of her to know...
Understand her-- when she shoots you smiles full of pain
Bleed for her-- because there's something more inside
Wait for her-- if you know just what she's worth
Not silver, but gold... and nothing gold can stay.





Last week, I went to Powell's with a few friends, and while they were browsing for Christmas presents, I found a book called "Post Secret". It was this collection of art people had submitted, anonymously, describing their secrets. Some of them were funny, a lot of them were really inappropriate, and a few were really sad. One person wrote, "The night he died, he tried to call me. When I saw it was him, I didn't answer."

That one's stuck with me all week.