UnSweet Dreams

A sleeping witch has naughty dreams

Of nighttime’s creepy, crawly things.

Soundly resting in her lair,

Spiders wriggle through her hair.

Beneath her bed the mice scurry

Over something dead and furry.

And down the hall a great black cat

Trains his gaze on a yummy rat.

As musty smells so gently glide

Across the floor with snakes that slide,

The little witch sees goblins prowl,

And something mean begins to growl.

Murmuring curses, she smiles sweetly,

Trapping children so they can’t flee.

Tasty fingers, scrumptious bellies—

She likes them best with slimy jellies.

She licks her lips and grins with glee,

But a crow cries—she wakes quickly.

Disappointed, she rubs her hands,

And soon she makes new evil plans.

Subway Inspiration Tuesday: Tri-ku

Here's the order in which I wrote them, though I like them just as well mixed up any way and singularly.

Some will leave a mark.
I really wish you hadn't.
*Sigh* Can't I forget?

When I think of you,
I can only hope that you
... are miserable.

Wish I were higher,
But sometimes that's how things fall.
*Shrug* I'll try later.

Can you tell I'm reading Gaiman?

I don't like December, not really.
Its trappings hang disconcertingly,
In such stark contrast to how we feel.
After all, you can't decorate what's dead.
Little lights alight, blur and bleed for bleary eyes
Because it's so cold I could cry.
Will, did, am.

It's so pretty on the postcard you might forget to pray
For the needles of pain to remind you you're alive,
Though you wonder if the natural numbness
Of lost things, frosting, might not be preferable.
Hollywood lied, you know—
Hell hath no fires, only endless snow.
(Lewis knows.)
I wonder if this is what it's like to grow old.
If it's true, I won't lie-
Truly, I think I'd rather die.

Peppermint grows year round,
And it tastes better in the summer anyway.

This is not the poem I set out to write.

Sometimes, some days, these days
I'm scared of dying.
Not of death, but of time lost.
And so I can't let a single moment
Slip by unseen, unfilled, unspent.
And so I cannot rest or cease or stop
For fear that sleep, that peace cannot
Be,
Only means a moment fallen short of fulfillment-
A sleepy Sunday saved for naught.
(Someones oft said, "I'll sleep when I'm dead.")
And so I run and go and do
And plot and plan and spend...
So I can safely say,
"I'm happy,"
(Or so busy I think I am, must be)
If this should ever be the end.
And some may say,
"She lived it to the full."
Carpe diem,
Or so they say.
(But this soul's not as young as it once was.)
"Seize the day."
*Sigh*
What a way
To die.

Inspiration is a dark night predator

Inspiration is a dark night predator, sneaking in and taking advantage of me prone, just as I've laid down in my warm bed. He throws me violently awake and won't let go. I'm left panting and out of breath when he finishes, when the words are on paper, when I'm too shaken to fall easily back to sleep.

This is the mess he left behind:

There is something to be said for falling completely in love with you
for only tonight.
No reservations, no turning back
It's all or nothing
and, Darling, I want it all.
Let me give you my all.
This is everything
because there is nothing more to give
or to be had.
Love me and I'll love you,
if only for a little while
What say has Time in these things anyway?
There is something to be said for falling in love,
knowing there will be
no lies, no games, no empty promises,
no broken hearts.
No holding back, Baby, I'm all yours
All yours unless we had all the time in the world.
All yours for only tonight.
Show me, what can you make of it?
And I'll kiss you goodbye, my love,
in the morning. The end.