Dear Diary (Love Dan)

So it is the winsome siren
That conquers my heart.

Even if for a moment,
This joy springs mellifluous
If not to others, than to me
I won't miss a beat,
I won't just play the cues,

I'll take the reins,
Take the stand.
You can have my hand,
And maybe, just maybe
My heart.

The mature, when defeated, are overjoyed.

In Difference

I raised my head. Her posture and expression made it clear to me that she had grown tired of being the anterior of my witticisms. So I smirked.

"There's only the feeble gray of civilization. The most intense, whether dark or light, are thrown out, above and below respectively."

"True, but the sand on the seashore does not favor those who are drowned most regularly by the tide." My eyebrows met, discussed her proposition, and promptly dismissed it.

"Segregation occurs by bits, by leaps, by the nation. There is no time or calculation, it is over before you can even consider its existence. It is" I emphasized, "completely natural."

Clearly she was fed up.

What Is the Depth of Desperation?

It's the thrill of the cautious defeat,
Painfully taken,
Like blood.

One moment of pain,
For the chance of new life.

Because it is risk
That brings the twist
Of changing fortunes,
Changing winds,
Those breezes brisk.
That bite through boredom
Like a needle pierces the skin.

I'm Back (Deep with Desparation)

Trying to resurrect
I pull myself, frail,
Root by root
Up the canyon wall

But I suspect
That I am vain
And the driver's side reflection
Does my pain
No justice.

So my heel grinds the dirt to powder
And the tremor, the clamor,
Is louder,
Now
It crushes me
And hope seems hardly a happy compromise
I'd rather a solution
Or a shovel . . .