The Rainbow of the Pot of Gold

Feet formed to soil, as she sways thoughtlessly. Hair undulates with the wind. A gold coin weighs in her blue pocket. In the distance a rainbow crosses. The end is in her sights.

But her eyes are stuck on the rainbow itself, it’s tranparent form that draws dreamers’ eyes.

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Focus in Muttering Silence

His chin sank into his palm, fingers pacing his face. Delayed, forced exhalations puffed out. His shoulders twisted, searching a place of just-right.

Noise sputtered from the adjacent room, at a irregular time, and a mumbling volume. His attention pulled, trying to decipher the sounds, but also not caring. A twinge akin to biting into something sweet you expected to be savory. The laugh-track plays on.

Sticky-notes filled the wall, like a kindergartner’s collage. Some were written in smudged pencil, some in thick marker, and others in pen, the pencil not being raised enough. In some roundabout way, they probably said the same thing: ‘procrastination’. They were his wall’s nicotine patches none-the-less.

Books cover surfaces, partially finished. Some are for learning, some for ‘creative inspiration’. Musical instruments are shimmied in small breaks between furniture, collecting dust. Though, he attempted to wipe it off periodically, as to not make him feel guilty.

The floor creaks from pacing roommates. Whether it was due to fear of talking to him, for pure irritation, or just due to indecision, he couldn’t know for sure. But either way, it left him unable to make his thought clear and stationary.

The chattering, and shadows from under the door make the television seems unnecessary. So, he gently prayed they would silence it. Not too hard though, inaudible discussion was most definitely a more distressing.

As the night settled in, silence finally came.

As his hand made motions of productivity, his eyes slowly stole darkness, and he sank into a silent dream.

Stale Summer: Relief

Stubs of straw spurt into a beige mat. Plants wither, reaching up a fence, roots pulled. The breeze is plush and cool. Eyes blur, and heatwaves wiggle. Flying low, a darnerfly assesses the damage. Undulations circulate through leaves and branches. As muscles relax into the evening, a soreness is noticed, sinking into a demi-relief, that is somehow better. There’s a purr from the traffic. Empty, pensive thoughts circulate with deep breaths. Oxygen tastes like ripe melon.

Hey, if I could get your help for a moment.

I wanted to start making some Zines. Are there any poems you guys think I should see about using?

I could even use one of you guys’ if you’d like. Would prefer using my own, just ’cause I know it better.

Would be super grateful for your input. : )

-Paro