Dry

It’s dry
and gray
outside.
I’m dreaming
of naps and Monsters,
despite knowing
the chemicals
will induce
unrest.

There’s bumps
minute
in pain,
but satisfying
in their defeat
covering
my forehead
with puss.

Blink up,
dry eyes,
to rain?
Not yet.
Skies here love
to tease too much
of moisture.

Deserts
don’t do
me well.
Three years I breathed
ocean air,
moist, despite
the salt.
I’m dry.


P.S. From now on I’ll keep the poetry to “The Anxious Mallow” and all my short stories or little rants on life or anything like that to my site, lowefantasy.com. ^.^ Gosh, that means two posts a week…anyways, the most recent post I put up had to do with pee and resisting becoming a semi-truck, and other such nonsense that actually makes perfect sense, whether you’re an anxious marshmallow or not. Drop by and take a look, if you got a mo…or if you’re nice…

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