Sand in my fingers

Sawdust under my feet
and smoke in my eyes,
I look for something familiar.

Sand in my fingers
and the sun at my back,
I look for something to grasp.

This idea in my head,
a missed opportunity.
I look ahead to what is next.

this little book

I had this little book years ago.
Just a little book of blank pages.
I fancied myself a poet.
Every little thought.
Every little slight.
The book was my outlet.

As I grew older, I set it aside.
There was no time for silly books.
No time for childish poems.
No outlet for those thoughts.
It sat in a drawer,
Hidden by socks, forgotten.

I found that book one day.
Last year, maybe the one before.
Cleaning out the sock drawer.
I flipped the pages.
Such a silly child, with silly words.
I put it in the shredder, page by page.

Now I long for that book.
I want to read those silly words.
My childhood thoughts and hurtful slights.
I want to add to that book.
My thoughts and slights.
My silly words.

And the stars go with you

I put my self into your heart
You push my heart away
I think I know what's in your head
You push my hand away
I pull you in
You push me back
We circle the unspoken
I turn my gaze up to the sky
You turn your eyes away
I leave my words there in the night
You leave leave me standing there
You leave
And the stars go with you