Poems

These are the notebooks I keep in my pockets. While the wind sweeps through my tangled head and cold fingers reach for the holes in my coat, I sit, and I wait at bus stop. Only it's not a bus stop. I never listen and sit in the emptiest of lots. I'm not waiting for anybody. Just wondering if anyone will look here too. Here are some poems I wrote when I couldn't sleep and I couldn't just stare at the faded ceiling and wonder why we're all so lonely.

Constellations

You're made of constellations

all the dust from your labors, all the  

connect the stars that freckle your neck and your back

abrupt, unabbreviated

you keep hamartias and enigmas

so startling that all people can manage is a stare

interconnected, intertwined

 made in constellations

m.s.

Untitled

There are dreams inside of us that never seep through the cracks;

the golden sap that drips like honey does

the way you hands sleep in their pockets

with leaves in your hair and forest light in your eyes

this is the saddest story ever told 

                                                              m.s.

Bloom.

Colors of sunset blossom in my chest

crack my ribs

     good enough?

     never enough.

                            sinking.

                                   suffocating.

                                          silence.

                                                 

                                                 swallowing my first light.

                           m.s.