what's this? a personal critique my friends...come one, come all.
sometime early in the morning of december twenty nine year two thousand two (when bad poetry is all that is possible):

whether its kissing or dancing
over wine and old friends
i hope in the end
the decision isn't left up to chance (ah, but it isn't jonathan)

i could write them words to
describe my emotions
but at this moment
silence best conveys my state

so between me and this ink (you're still talking)
we'll go to bed early
and let the page do the dance

and drive in our sleep
to an old midwestern town (goodnight david moore)

and lay in the lap
of the reality of change

and sing to the music
while breathing in nothing (what about crying?)

and wake in the morning
to a cold that keeps me from
writing

please turn out the lights
i'm too tired to think now.

*take note! writers and readers: your best writing does not come at the most intense time of your life.