Poetry's only poetry when it makes you ache.

Chalk drawing on a driveway at 6 am,
"Will you skip the Sadie Hawkins dance with me?"

Wrong note and bad acoustics of a middle school band room,
"More air, more feeling, you're losing your touch."

Long strides across a quad to catch a glimpse of bad habits,
"Hey last November, I moved on with out you."

Deafening music and a crowd too large for such a small space,
"Greenestreet in the summer can only mean sweat, booze and something kind of magical."

Holes in the wall from the pins holding the photographs up,
"This makes me think of a Made For TV Movie, with better sexual tension."


Hey Spring, you came too late.
Winter's unforgiving and
Autumn's hiding from the tension that
Summer left in it's haze.

These things, they're broken. A million little pieces scattered across the lawn, just like a heart the night before a new school year.

Those people won't ever look at anyone else the same again; their eyes have lost all tints of hope and love.

But let's be honest, you were never about noticing eyes.
You were never about the shades of optimism that separated those who thought and those who did and those who simply looked back.
You weren't the kind for here's and now's or yesterday's or looking forward to's.

So what kind were you?
And more importantly, what kind are you becoming?