gulls, and the mosaics of dreams

i broke pencils with too hard a grip
as i tried to write my thoughts as if
i were chiseling them into my skull
it’s no wonder i often feel the pull
of a headache coming on, i slip
over the words, feeling a bit foolish
i imagine myself at times like a gull
making up for gloomy days
by stripping dull coastlines of
shiny litter – trying to make
the most of imperfections,
finding value in the gold
that doesn’t always glitter –
before it stashes itself away into
waves walking with the sun
before it sets and burns away
the things i forgot to write in my head
which will fade into a strange
mosaic dream, outlined
in ocean blue and sunset red
backdated Post a Day poem for April 6th, 2017

shadows & gems

my brush runs and runs her hands,
petting the face of the canvas and
once it is smoothed down and soft
with a mixture of colors and hues
all sorts of enigmatic clues
a tabby cat of textures and shadows
dancing around a hidden truth i try
to peel out of my heart and limbs
then attempt to recreate them as perfect gems
worth 1,000 words, even if there
may possibly be nothing worthy
to be heard, but just enough to be
stirred and mixed into a lovely
texture to perform enchanting tricks
on the eye, making others contemplate
if it’s about life or the desire to die
or if it’s really about a higher truth
or the lowest of lies
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: pursue

lined up

lines and strings and threads
make bread – food for thought
i push another plate of it
inside my head, i ought
to have known, nothing
can be done with old
brittle bones, i’ll put them
away and accept your
long gone, far away –
i look into
lines and strings and threads
of words and instruments and blankets for
solace when i feel
out of line, look strung out, or feel dead

master of pieces

when my youth could handle a punch
in the stomach from the clock yelling
it’s past three in the morning!
at least four nights a week
i would just slam some soda pop down
my neck and give birth to some sweet,
sweet “masterpieces”, nothing more than
regurgitated musings from my
professors’ school of thought
babyfood spoon fed back to them,
jerking off their egos
but slapping the wrists of my own
creativity with rulers labeled A, B, C
they would measure me by
i grew up thinking my goals
had to be complete, solid
i’m older now, the clock is a bit more
apologetic – or maybe i just don’t neglect
the time since i look after it a little bit more
and also feel it a bit more
and usually slip into bed by nine or ten
at least seven nights a week
i no longer give a shit about exquisite
masterpieces, for people to walk up to
to mumble oooooohs and aaaaahhsss, drably saying
this is worth more than a thousand words!
i’m learning to be a master of pieces –
it’s unheard of, in this day and age,
to find resolve and satisfaction with incompletes,
loose-ends, and a hardly livable wage,
but i find within those holes and gaps
i can fill them in with feelings and loads of other philosophical,
relatable, crap – and all is just as well
because i no longer count on others to tell me if
my art, my writing, my expressions, or even myself
receives a passing grade or fails

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: exquisite

shadows run long, losing form

frustration heats up my face
when words rise to the surface
but refuse to take form
they quicken my heartbeat,
shake my voice by the shoulders
but leave me feeling
at a loss and forlorn –
like opening a mailbox lid,
envelopes addressed
to the reader, but the letters
already torn out and hid,
removed and returned
to the void where
shadows run long without rest,
worn out in the evening –
stretched thin across the
skin of pavement
their thoughts cannot take shape
their temperaments grow grim
they cannot catch their breath in the night –
lingering, lips mute, folding softly
into the dim light of the moon shine,
curling away, losing form,
their outlines out of sight

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: shine.