in the Dark

The edges of the night are fuzzy.
I don't look at them to hard though. Who know's what I'd find.
It's just smart. Like not walking down that alley. From it's edge the homeless are audible. Having a quarrel. Maybe drunk? Maybe high on cough syrup.

The click of my heels keep me company. The way my scarf floats into the black make me feel light and worry free. Like I don't have a million things tugging at the daylight hours.

In the pitch of the night all the needy people fade away.

The click of my heels keep me safe. That and Orion in the sky, keeping guard.
I'm tired.

Probably I spend to much time running from my thoughts.
I know I don't sleep well.
I'm up a million times a night.

But it's when I start thinking,
when I get back to self.
I want to run.

I'm not sure if there's a candle left to burn.

Last Draft of ART

Sorry, probably you are bored of this poem but I thought it would be sweet to include you in it's evolution.

So for the last time here is:


It’s that

dirty little secret.

"Don't laugh-

my dream is to write a book.

I want to write."

It’s the tooth that you put under your pillow and hope for money to appear in return.
It is uncomfortable.
It’s growth.
It’s what’s crafted between thoughts

and shared with the world, or

kept to yourself.
It is ever-changing, malleable

It’s purity,
it's burlesque.

It’s the line that runs from the height of a woman’s cheek bone to the curve

of her breast, the slim of her waist, and ends with that poor baby toe.