I keep sweepin' this floor
washin' clothes, dishes, babies
trying to clean up this mess
you made of me, my family.
Cry on that rebel
chocolate cake we got
because why the hell not
we're broke anyway
four dollars
same as four million
Selling eggs, sperm, smiles
Noodles and tomato sauce
to stop feeling hungry
even though I'm sick from it
spending the night
flushing undigested noodles,
expensive water
and all of my crazy pills
Stabbing myself in the ear
hoping I won't hear myself think

My home has a window wall
panes and all
that are hard to clean
but the light coming through
is worth it - you'll see
the view is to a street
so I can see what humans
are like by themselves
in a bunch
my home has scratched
wood floors
that scratch - a roller skate
and over there - a chair
fell backwards
my home has been home
to loves moms
strangers dogs
lonely artists
and parakeets
my home is warmed by the sun
and cooled by a breeze
my home rarely needs lamps
or voices raised
my home has a jade
with red tips
and walls made from brick
that scratch your elbows
when you lean on them
so that you remember her
whenever again you
scratch on bricks
my home will be for a while
until I am old
and I will give her up
for another homesick soul
with no idea
what she's missing
except for what she's hoping.

I have a habit of starting over. I guess I like turning over new leaves.

A Pocket That Could Hold The Universe

Just for my personal stuff. This remains my little poetry and story corner of the world. Though it seems that part of me is taking a haitus lately.