sufjan is always going to belong to sufjan

the Psalms are written by wiser men then you

but they are thrown about

as your own words

i cant believe this

has boiled over in the pot

the water has all gone and now the rice

is stuck to the pan

it is burnt black

and i will never be the same

curly haired girls dancing in white dresses across a clear sky

kissing quietly

and lighting matches for the sulfur smell

their is a harmony playing out

and it causes me to choke

it was the year of the dragon

she was born

and she died in the year of the ox

my relatives know how to bury

the things they cannot accept

my only revenge is my happiness

and i am waiting for the cold

like a child on christmas eve

my beaches are hotter

in my absence

and your grass will never be this green

how fickle

i kissed him like i was leaving for work
i did not turn back as the car pulled away

for two weeks i cried enough to save all the farms across the Simpson
the salt of my tears wore the grease from the grills

Patrick told me to keep my chin up
and Jo told me to never go backward

so i went up
and away

and now all i can do is write you letters
and remember the smell of you in the morning

how fickle this thing love is

mail boxes

it is
as though
everybody has died
and gone to heaven
and i am writing letters i cannot send
because the mail boxes are too full
of sympathy
and regret

i fill your head with stories that are no longer stories
that are mine to tell
yet i cannot stop but tell you
all the more

there is no truth
and a tiredness waiting in my eyes
to catch me
if i hold them shut too long
i am always waking up too late
and you will probably not get my letter
not in this time of mourning.

tomorrow will be a gorgeous day

tomorrow i will travel to a small house

a few miles away

to claim this gorgeous instrument

and on the bus

on the way home

i will play you songs

Myfanwy (poem by John Betjeman)

Myfanwy
Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the nursery
Soap scented fingers I long to caress.

Were you a prefect and head of your dormit'ry?
Were you a hockey girl, tennis or gym?
Who was your favourite?
Who had a crush on you?
Which were the baths where they taught you to swim?

Smooth down the Avenue glitters the bicycle,
Black-stockinged legs under navy blue serge,
Home and Colonial,
Star,
International,
Balancing bicycle leant on the verge.
Trace me your wheel-tracks,
you fortunate bicycle,
Out of the shopping and into the dark,
Back down the avenue,
back to the pottingshed,

Back to the house on the fringe of the park.
Golden the light on the locks of Myfanwy,
Golden the light on the book on her knee,
Finger marked pages of Rackham's Hans Anderson,
Time for the children to come down to tea.
Oh! Fullers angel-cake,
Robertson’s marmalade,
Liberty lampshade,
come shine on us all,
My! what a spread for the friends of Myfanwy,
Some in the alcove and some in the hall.
Then what sardines in half-lighted passages!
Locking of fingers in long hide-and-seek.
You will protect me, my silken Myfanwy,
Ring leader, tom-boy, and chum to the weak.

pencil case

sometimes i wish i was the green pencil in your pencil case
you would always have to use me
to draw the grass
that would grow across your notebook

if i cannot be the green pencil
ill maybe be the blue one
equally as usable
and then i will be apart of your endless sky

but i think i would rather just be in your pencil case
because then i would be near you always