Saturday Morning Blues

you are a flat pancake
no decent crumb structure
no one wants you
and you don’t know how to build
yourself up
and by you I mean me



My bid to be more practical
-since gravity pulls me toward dreaming-
lands me in the parking lot
of new year, new me resolutions

but I don’t believe I’ll make it unless
I believe I can do it and will do it
so what’s the point if I wait and fail
versus tackle it when I’m ready



The orange pencil traces
the fireworks     arcing
through my chest cavity
The chocolate pencil follows the warp
of the girders’ structure
keeping my skin from collapsing
my lungs
because the silver-blue pencil of my skin
is sparking like an electric unicorn

Don’t touch me – I am a pencil
not finished drawing