I took Everything Is Illuminated out from the libary about two weeks ago, but to be honest, I'm not enjoying it. I'm only twenty five pages in, which is ridiculous for me. I'm just not getting into it. I'm not even interested. So on Thursday I went back to the library and took out two books of poetry. Charles Bukowski's "Sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way," and e.e. cummings' complete works. The first I picked up because of the cover, which looks like paint thrown up against a wall. The second, because I love e.e. cummings, duh.

I also read a blog entry that Zack had posted, which (I wish I was kidding) made me cry. He doesn't even realize how much he doesn't want to be with me, how terrible we were becoming for each other. Even his own best friend told me that Zack's codependency was at fault. I'm not looking to blame anyone, but he can't pin that bit on me.

Oh well. At least I can write again.

each day i watched the flower grow
from seed to root to bulb to blossom
the silent beauty in it's petals
would keep me captivated 'til dusk
i didn't want to lose it to the snow
so i sliced the stem clean off
but when i put it in a glass to drink
it would not even sip and wilted
so i pressed the poor thing
in a book of love poetry
to absorb it's quiet touch
or something
but my flower now lay brown and dead
so i buried it, and marked it's grave
in it's next life it will be a dove
and i will shoot it down