not sure how to name this

you are afraid of the cliff

I am afraid of the fall

you are afraid of the silence

i am afraid of the noise of

you are afraid of death

I am afraid of missing you

you are afraid of leaving

I am afraid of not missing you

come look at the moon through the window

see it smiles with a borrowed glory

the end is not beginning to learn

how to live with a broken hand

you’re broken at the gates

and offered all you’ve ever had

on broken plates

chipped and all you’ve been sad

come look at the moon through the window

see it smiles with a borrowed glory

the end is not beginning to learn

how to live with a broken hand

see the little girl play, she sings so sweetly

watch her feet play the sand and her eyes play the melody

come look at the moon through the window

see it smiles with a borrowed glory

the end is not beginning to learn

how to live with a broken hand

COPYRIGHT 2009 WILLIAM STONEWALL MONROE

magnete poetre

And after all this.

Are you living the dream. It isn't enough to sit there wholly contented with some societal measure of success. Once again being defined by that which does not define you. Wearing stiletto's on your ego doesn't make you any taller. This isn't to say that somehow you are the only measure by which you live. Find your definition. Make sure it isn't something that can change based on the weather or the radio.

flash photography.

just sayin. i mean. I just felt like saying flash photography.

fun with rhyming

medical mister

disastrous sister

a death of an enemy.

Cold and alone

in a race to the phone

and a trumped up dystrophy

raining and straining

too corrupt to defame

calling a name

the best, rest canopy.

Come away from the window - Christmas

The elderly woman lingered. She smelled of thrift shoppes and christmas. She must have delusions that such thing is a mark of beauty. Laid on so thick you can almost see the green tag sale and hear the bell ringers. He remembered. A dog. The door to the outside was oak, and it’s glory weighed upon him. Brushing some canine hair from his sleeve, he turned his attention upward. The chair leaned back a little far and fell. He lay, and as his allergies bothered him immensely, a sneeze arose within, he attempted to make contact. long… long… long... short. short. short. long. long. long. . . . attempting to escape cliché at the expense of nonsense.

hand soap and a scottish revolutionary.

why do you sit there like so many bubbles trapped in hand soap.

content, frozen by surrounding, encased in the plastic securities

that bring any other William Wallace to his knees crying for freedom.