A person’s like a branch with too many twigs; they will grab and prick you and they will lose their green hair as fall comes; they stay in one place and have no feet... a person’s like a branch with too many twigs.
At the top an eraser emerged Next three thin strips of green metal Then a long piece of wood painted yellow, with green writing And a tip of lead you write with.
A cold chill causes my hair to dance
A cold chill causes my hair to dance in the breeze, even underneath my warm coat, I am cold. Am I cold? Or am I cold inside? My pace is slow. It gets slower as I approach the bus stop. I stop, and look up, but it is only to see the dark sky, is it dark? Or are my eyes simply dark? Time is slowing down, or am I simply slowing down... When the bus comes I miss it, I don’t even see it. The bus driver asks me if I’m coming on, and I shake my head and watch it leave.
PS: the magic page that will always jump you to the latest poem is "http://www.saintannsny.org/depart/computer/poems.html"