Friday, March 17, 2006


The sun is shining,
Though it didn't always.
I am happy,
Though I wasn't always.
Time is passing,
As it does always.
You are no longer a friend,
Though you were always.

Meaning floats on words like sea-weed on a wave.
Then words sink and go to the grave.
But the meaning is there, floating along.
In a book, a poem, a speech, or a song.

Lips are just skin, unless they belong to someone special.
Then they feel like clouds, sticky wet and soft.
Skin is just an organ unless it is being touched.
Then every hair stands on end and every nerve waits to be excited.
And a rush of passions flows from a place.
Coursing through pathways like water flowing down a mountain.
Bursting in your heart like a watermelon thrown to the ground.

Tight, soft, goosebumps.