I wish I did not crave
tracing the tattoo on your arm.
I wish the grey at your temples
did not make me want to
run my fingers through your hair.
I wish I could unfeel the trails
your fingertips burnt onto my skin.
I wish your smile
did not reach your eyes.
I wish the willingness
to throw my life away
for this insane infatuation
was not plainly written on my face.
You were my poison,
you still are my folly.
Small wooden plaques
breathe prayers
into unconcerned winds.
Heartfelt wishes
bleed hope
into indifferent rain.
Expectations
surrender
to an uncaring universe.
Hopes, dreams, and wishes…
such overwrought creatures.
Little drama queens,
scattering grandiose ideas
like volcanoes spray ash.
Their exaggerated optimism
is quite annoying.
I have made it a habit
to misplace or
forget about them.
They never take kindly
to my pragmatic attitude,
rioting
in the back of my mind
with a vengeance.
My head rings with
their refusal
to be abandoned,
their insistence
I finally commit.
by Robert Burns
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
and gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak’ a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.
november child 