What to write that says

'I'm really mad'?
I've given you stake
and you have what I had

you've an in on my insides--
what makes me concerned
that thing made by emotions
not by what I've learned

it's a tough one, to know
that your doings show
you're but a talker

you say against words
that you want to connect
perhaps you've just never learned
how to respect
others, or by turns,
yourself.

sometimes I think you have made it
but then
you stick yourself back
in the same place, again.

And you know - without getting!
that you've made up your mind
it's perplexing; you're so friend-ly
without being truly kind

there's something about you,
that I really do find
could be worth it
but you've yet to intend

so there's nothing to do on my end
but ride through
meld up some steel
and diminish the part you
play.

on my sort of walk

there's stride, and it's strong
a spur at my heel, so that, before long
I've passed where I headed
and must find it's not wrong
to add a new line to my vintage'd song

there's stride, and it's made
by a push to push on
via paths not yet laid
by a lust not yet gone

for a string of good lands and
treat after treat for my eyes and my hands

and a lust by my heart
to know what it deserves,
more than hills and terrain and bends upon curves

beyond where I headed before, as I walk,

I know what lay before it all,
what happened first,
that I was, I was.
and with that, I stride on
my foot to the road and my ear to a song.

the pigeons

It is twilight, and I pedal my bike toward the back of my apartment building, through the alley like I usually do. Mostly it's quiet back there, except for the occasional pigeon hooing. But as I slow my bike near the gate, an echoed voice makes me look up.

Framed by the open window on the second floor, there is a dark-haired woman. She is standing a few feet away from the window, and smiling at something. Her face is made brighter more by her smile than by the incandescence of the bulb-lit room she stands in. And the woman isn't only smiling, she's talking. And more than that, she seems excited. I cannot hear what she is saying, but I can hear her voice rise and fall. And I can see her animate her words with her arms. I cannot see who the woman is talking to, but I get the impression she has an audience of more than one.

But the nice part is, when I pull my eyes back from the dark-haired woman, I see flowers. Bunches and bunches of purple and blue flowers. It looks like the room is full of them, and they are tied and standing upright in clear vases.

I think I know what the bunches of flowers are for. I think I know why the dark-haired woman is smiling, and why her voice raises and lowers so much.

It really is a pleasant sight, seeing her framed that way by the flowers and the window.

it'll come

are you ever so awake
that things are bigger than the sky
and the sky is relatively dense,
made of more than blue,
and utterly far away

and there isn't anything to do but wait
until the sky comes to you
when it rains?