Icicles
You’re growing like stalactites from my gutter
Fed by drips to the tips that sputter
Spittle from the rooftops
As melted snow becomes drops.
Each day you’re growing longer
And I debate if I should make you
Come down before you’re stronger
But I don’t want to break you.
Pride
Someone held up a mirror and I saw my pride.
All over my face was a defense that I’d
Prepared and had ready to go.
I stared at a steady show
Of “but”s and “if”s that I didn’t know
Existed before this reflection persisted
On showing me a token
Of a larger me that was broken.
Short Poems
There’s nothing wrong
With poems that are long,
But short poems sooner find their fate
In brevity that they create.
Dead Flowers
The florist section of the grocery store has exploded
And I’ve decoded this strange phenomenon to be a trap
Bridging the gap between men who had romance planned
And those who ran out for a dozen eggs. I understand
That it’s appropriate to buy flowers
But held under the powers
Of those inflated prices,
This crisis of whether or not I should buy roses plays in my head.
In a week’s time, I’m out fifty bucks and they’re dead.
Asking You Out
My brain molecules swirl around
Before they form a sound
And right now I’m in that speechless state,
Taking a moment to formulate
That thought that I’ll soon postulate
Assuming that you’d want to date.
Seeking Translucence
I struggle with giving you glory in everything.
I hold onto things that I want to bring
Glory to me. Some days I feed off of it,
Finding it hard to stand by or sit
And watch something I do become translucent.
Though everyone sees the light that you sent,
Part of me’s in a bright orange vest as the one
Directing traffic toward your Son.
A woman in 1920
You were prettier blended in interlaced scanning
When forgiveness was panning
At one-sixth of the digital revolution,
And a frame-blending resolution
Added a softness to your skin.
Collecting Images
I’m collecting images inside my head
So I can recall those instead
Of making up memories when you’re gone
And I’m left to live on
Without you.
They say everything causes cancer
But there’s nothing with an answer
As to why or when you’ll have to go.
Just some time, ‘till I won’t know
What to do with myself.
Indeterminate Progress Spinner
The indeterminate progress spinner
Means that I’m a winner
Of waiting…
For an amount of time that’s unquantifiable.
At least this is more reliable
Than the guestimated random generation
Of numbers predicting the sedation
Of my impatience…
Waiting for these digits to disappear
Since the end is supposedly near.
When YouTube Freezes
When pixels fail to displace
Pixels in the viewer space,
My fingers run in place
Frustrated at your frozen face.
BonjourPoetry 
