My name is Dan.
I'm Dan the Stickman.
I live with my Mom in her triangle blouse
There’s a
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Poetry
2 min
My name is Dan.
I'm Dan the Stickman.
I live with my Mom in her triangle blouse
There’s a
... [+]
Blue-bells
coaxing melodies from morning grass. Blue sunlight
spilling into sidewalk cracks
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I am a self-care goddess
I get up at 8 am
Straight from my bed into work out clothes
I
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Paper plates, paper cups.
Pink frosting on the
Heavy handle of my fork.
Flushed faces
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Our surroundings, one
The universe, hath begun
Entropy presents, one condition:
Our souls
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Walking down below the shadows
looking far across the mind
voice of doubt kneeled and
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One brisk, yet warm November day
I paused, set down my rake,
And took a moment to look upon
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For many moments,
I am convinced,
I am not even a girl I know.
I dance along to the
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He does not think himself so odd,
Eyes lined with Egyptian kohl,
A glossy, chubby, waddling
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Filled with time
and not enough
remembering what I am
doing is rough
For a day I was Rodin.
My hands belonged not to me,
But to Michelangelo
And Donatello.
I
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On a frosty winter’s morning sterile lighting
flickers: it carves shadows
on the walls
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Imprisoned behind walls of stone
Naked before the curtain
Spirits no more known
He could
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This time of year
When the snow falls
And the wind turns cheeks rosy
And noses numb
I
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Black and white
red and blue
right, left
don't forget who's who
yelling, screaming
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