inner art journal

 

The Gift

 

Wrapped up in plain brown paper

And tied with pieces of string-

Ordinary me inside:

That’s the gift of life I want.

No flash, drama, excitement-

Kardasians can have it.

Let me be blessed with boredom.

 

 

Pleasure and Pain

 

Some atoms, Lucretius says,

Are smooth like polished pebbles.

You could skip them across gloom’s

Flat black water and feel good.

Others have barbs.  They snag and

Rip to pieces the bright silk

Of your unsuspecting heart.