Curious Thoughts


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Little Miss Inconsiderate

Little Miss Inconsiderate

Consider this:

I am only as old as the film on your teeth.

Only as bold as your darkest attire.

I am none more than a child to you..

..So why do I feel over twenty-two?

Little Miss Inconsiderate

Consider this:

Your tone is none more than white noise to me.

I find myself questioning your sanity.

How could you have survived this long?

Weakened heart and never strong.

Little Miss Inconsiderate

Considerate this;

My kind words are treasures.

Precious and Rare.

You do not deserve wealth of any kind.

Yet, they're always there.

Little Miss Inconsiderate

Consider this:

I have born witness to the truth etched in your back.

Intricate patterns sketched in black.

Clear and Unclear.

Do not try my writer's hand.

Little Miss Inconsiderate

Consider this:

We are not the same.

You and I.

You are none more than an intruder in my atmosphere.

Begone from here.


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To fade into obscurity, to become just another blurred image in the background..

We are more than simple hues of white or brown, more than light brush strokes against a blank canvas.

Our eyes see all that is presented before us, yet we remain blind to dying glow of the sun in the horizon.

How long before our shadows form the darkened mass of uncertain night?

How long will we stand against whipping winds before we crumble against ourselves once more?

We are clay statues, breathed to life.

Flesh upon delicate flesh, we are woven fabric without pattern.

How long before the cold rain falls with hopes of washing us away?

We are, but travelling souls.

Our purpose, unknown. Our existence, unproven.

With no constant confirmation, are we the truth or a fallacy?

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He finds me soft.

Sweet and supple, fresh-faced.

And.. young like a new sunrise.

He deems me cold 

Like the first snow of winter.

He calls to me.

Soft, with parted lips.

My name remains, but a whisper..

He roughs me up.

Twisting and turning.

Lips, soft.

Skin, soft.

Eyes, soft.

Like feathers against my skin.

His fingertips, curious and tough.

I am putty in his hands.

I ask him if this is love...

...And he becomes 'soft'.

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