Now I am the Mud Storm.
And I am filled,
And I am choked.

Then, I was the Rain Form.
And I was thrill,
And I was hope.

Hate Stains & Acid Stings.

At 1 O'Clock- I think, I hope- I looked for you.

I looked in the space between 

Your house and mine,

And when I couldn't find you there,

I looked for you again.

I looked in the space between,

The bathroom and your bedroom,

And when I couldn't find you there,

I looked for you again.

I looked in the space between

The BIG OLD CLOCK and the wall,

And when I couldn't find you there,

I looked for you again.

I looked in the space between

Your Momma's paints and the mousetrap,

And when I couldn't find you there,

I knew it wasn't 1 O'Clock after all.

Our houses make an 'L' when

You look from up high,

And everything looks flat.

In your bathroom we found a stain,

Your Momma said was hair dye,

But we knew was blood, or hate.

The BIG OLD CLOCK

Was made in Indonesia,

And the dust's all on my sleeves.

Your Momma can't paint no more,

Since your daddy threw that stuff

On her face, and then ran.

Remember how we sat in your bathtub,

And looked into the hall at your BIG OLD CLOCK,

And waited for the 1,

And counted down,

And watched your Momma clean the kitchen

And cry. 

She cried so loud. 

So, so loud, until my daddy came,

And we sat in the bathtub,

And made up stories

And thought about how blood

And hate always stain.

And you cried. 

Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired.

So... So... tired,

Making my way home 

Through the toenails 

Of the famous.

People who gather on

My jealousy's lawn

Aren't famous,

But they're on the billboards too. 

Plucking out my hairs

Heralds a flock of poultry,

Flying? Away in fear,

Of my tweezers. You're next

And don't you try fly,

I clipped your wings, 

So it will hurt if you

Run. I'm sorry.

Today was okay,

Alright, just fine,

Fair and middling,

Which is marvelous.

I forgot your name,

So I left my pants on,

Despite your hands on my zip,

My bleeding knees on gravel.

Bleeding knees that

Scabbed and healed, 

Until I picked them clean, 

And then until they bled. 

THINGS can only get WORSE.

Warning, warning, warning, warning, warning.
Bad, and bad, and bad, and WORSE.
Things will only get worse from here,
Your heart Is like a balloon.
Your heart, like a balloon,
Is swelling,
Your heart is swelling,
Not from love, but
From pain,
Not from love from Pain, But From
Painfromlovefrompain
Lovepainlovepain
LoPaLoPaLoPaLoPa
Lplplplp.

Will You Be? I Think Not.

1. I know you won't, you know I will,
But you don't know what I
Can do, and you're so sorry that I
Won't give, and I won't live, and I
Won't be there to submit to your will.

2. I've heard some things about you,
But I don't know what to think,
I know that you can think,
Will you tell me what to think?
I know I don't know what to know about you.

3. There are sometimes people to be,
And sometimes people to not,
I think that what you love is not,
It's complicated when it's not,
Think it over, what not to be.

Weird one
Style is:

First line, last line have common last words,
middle three lines have a common last word,
The words must have been featured somewhere in the stanza previous,
And the product of these last words must turn into a sensible title.

COINED: The Ellis Sestina! It shouldn't be called an Ellis Sestina, because the stanzas have *five* lines, but whatever. It has a similarity to Sestinas.=)

Worms.

!ALTERNATIVE TITLE?
The Way in Which Sex Becomes Neither HERE nor THERE.


It’s not something that I felt,
Rather,
I just vomited it out
One day,
All over
Your
Lap.

I was terribly
Apologetic,
And you were awfully
Sweet.

And here I was,
Saying Nothing words
In a Nothing chorus
OF EVERYTHING
That you felt

Which somehow had
Made its sweet way
Into my head,
Like some macabre
Little worm.

Isn’t it rather fitting,
Then,
That those worms
Would munch on the
Edge of your face in my mind

Once you’d left?

And I swear to you
That not I have- not anyone has-
Touched where you liked to touch.
I’ve been too busy catching the worms.

IT; THAT.

IT works like this.

There isn't what IS,
But could be.
Just when, and how?

There isn't what is,
And Can't, Where Won't
But COULD BE!

Just when,

And

For God's Sake,

!How?

Sometimes I think it would be practical,
And not at all unlike my present state-
All things considered
And cost well concerned-

To write with the ink
That flows from my fingers.

My attention span warrants
No less,
No more
Than a novella!

I would explain, but...

For now, now now now,

I want the bits of you I like
To live in a box;
And the bits of me
I want you to know
To live there too.

It will have to be platonic, of course,
Because THAT KIND of thing doesn't
Happen without
The bits of eachother you
DON'T LIKE
Mixed in as well.