Little blue bird
why do you sing?
Little blue bird
where do you fly?
Do you fly from tree to tree?
Are you still looking for your home?
Little blue bird
do you fly home?
Little blue bird
is home the reason you sing?
If you would like to read more of my poetry please take a look at my portfolio or watch a few of my poetry readings.
I will write about nothing. Nothing is what I will write about, but what is nothing except the lack of what you want to be. Perhaps I will write about everything instead of the nothingness that I run from. The nothing that is dark and cold from lack of heat and light. Why would I write about the things that could be considered nothing. Nothing is in fact nothing that I want to write. I will not write about nothing. Nothing is not what I will write about, but I will write about everything instead.
Yes, I will write about everything in my mind. I will jot down notes about my phone turning off, if only for the night, about conversations with groups of friends, and about people being bagels in a tired mind’s dreams. I will think about what I write as the words are typed, not wishing to edit the words on the screen. I will only write and write I will. Yes, I will write about everything in my mind.
Let me fly away on the great big plane that is called my mine, so that I can dream about all the lovely things that come from the nothing being left behind. Who left this nothing, this hole for me to find and can I fill it up again with all the things that it lacks. I will shine the light of consciousness in the dark corners to go exploring into the depths of the unknown, like caves in a familiar mountain that was always left alone. I will fill the holes up with my thoughts, with ideas of love and of what I believe about being home.
I will write about nothing. Yes, I will write about everything in my mind, so let me fly away on the great big plane that is called my mind.
Poetry comes out
with my eyes closed
when sleep in near;
brilliant poems flow
when paper is far
and repeating is not enough.
Wisdom and intelligence overwhelm me
when the only outlet is to speak it to myself
or when no one is listening.
Yet when I open my eyes
words fly away
like fading dreams they fly.
The poetry inside is trapped
like a rat in a house unable to be freed
as soon as the paper is in reach.
I open my mouth when some is around
and only babble spews out.
So I write with my eyes closed,
freeing my poems from the paper trap
and write when no on is around
with the quiet of my mind.