Every hair on my body is raised, my
eyes water, my ears burn – and yet
the wind it still blows, viciously
it has been sent from the sea
to come over my town, and torture me

It is days like this – dark days, wet days
that i long for California. The rolling
hills, these little tiny towns – they
just don’t do it for me, anymore
If I never go back to California – and
feel that still, dry heat upon my skin
I hope that I can reach into myself
and find a West Coast in me, a tranquil
dry paradise sitting carefully, waiting
for me – inside my freezing chest


Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s