In the twisting of the road where the grass grow fit
A house with a pond and a bridge is to sit

Two happy lovers with their tangled limbs in bed
Usher in the morning with muscles laying dead

Night time love making exhausts their souls
And all through the night he filled her holes

Not holes of the flesh, or holes of the face
But holes in the soul that make waste of one's base

Wife lay comatose with dandelion hair
And husband sit attentive to watch and stare

Watch, watch her sleep just in case she escape
Tangled **** in his bed as if covered in drape

Early at dawn he begins to seek her flesh
For beneath her flesh lay something to enmesh

Fill, fill the holes so watchful lover
And harvest the body that sleeps under cover.

At birth we are saplings;

absorbing and sponge-like;

anchored by flimsy roots.



Each developing child is a sliver,

a woodchip,

a branch.



We send our saplings to schools

to be stripped of their bark

and pounded into smooth identical geometrical shapes;

shapes incapable of stretches and growth.



These equations and grammaticals add shape,

not depth, so simple

simple enough to identify our souls

with a string of numbers and letters.



I was born a sapling,

born to stretch, twist,

reach for illumination; fueling the roots

from which I sprang.



Why do these axes

clad in their glasses

want to beat me into factory form?



We should be watered and nursed

until our trunks grow rings

incapable of calculation;



Teach me to grow toward the sun,

and not to become a fragrant product.



Teach me to drop fruits of wisdom

and throw flowers;

for apples can only drop

from fruitful trees.

I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an *******. I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.

I went to Palm Beach carrying every shard of my soul today. It was empty, and it was going to storm. Not a soul but I. The waves brought in sting with each rolling army of sea foam, and I cried with the salt water of the Atlantic. That water roared with the screaming amputees that lay oozing in my heart. I thought about becoming one with the water; taking a deep breath of blue to end the pain. But I didn't. I let the shards of my spirit cut my palms as a buried them in the sand; I let the sharks smell my blood. I let the tide leave with my soul.

In the eyes of the earthly
I am still just a bud
I am barely seventeen

But my soul has lived
And through living,
It has died on numerous occasions.

I have scars
That still often
Somehow bleed.

The wrinkles and grey hair
On my heart
Are beyond my years.

Still I cannot figure out
Why a lump fills my throat
On my birthday.

We talk with
The flitting understanding
Of space
Between two feeding birds.

Eyes look away
And return eagerly
Waiting to transmit
More of the feeling.

The feeling
Between us both
That both implodes walls
And builds them.

The feeling
That blushes in our words
And makes our silences
So loud.

The feeling fluctuates
Softly around our eyes
And strokes us both
With intangible caressing.

Stare at me.

Speak with me.

Be silent with me
For no matter what is said
Or unsaid
I am getting
An earful.

Today, I tore my heart off of yours with unparalleled force. I told you I wanted to be friends.
I don't.
I told you this will help me heal.
It won't.
You are missing from me; my eyes burn no longer with tears but with fatigue.
You bid me to sleep soundly. You feed my soul with fruits that can only be found hanging from the crooked tree that is you.
I let you bend me until I broke,
And you are all that can put me back together. I've never been so confused and submerged, suffocated and frustrated, for you can't give me what I want or need.
I try to convince myself you don't deserve me, and you don't.
This is unhealthy.
I want anything that will numb the pain or speed the scarring.