You are no man
You are but a child
How can you live the way you do,
Pining to be pursued
When you are supposed to be the pursuer?
You cry and whine that you cannot be wanted
That you will not be humored
You are not accepted
You shall not be loved
But you are a coward at best
And a failure of a man at worst
You are no man
You are but a child
Your desires are far from realistic
And you expect to be pampered
To be waited upon
To be loved unconditionally
You will not apologize
For acting selfish and stupid
You will not allow yourself
To be 'humiliated' in that way
To incline your head to a woman you've wronged
God forbid you apologize
God forbid you show remorse
You are prideful and conceited in the worst of ways
You are no man
You are but a child
I cannot bear to listen to you grovel
About how your dream girl is unattainable
And all you want is a little love
A man would not waste away for lack of courage
A man would be courageous and chivalrous
Taking a leap of faith and being honorable
But you?
You cower at the sight of adversity
Squirm at any sense of discomfort
You have no backbone
You have no sense
You are but a child
And a child you shall stay

The morning dew

Lay upon the ground

As we walked along the beach

His hand in mine as we talked

About life and when we did first meet

He was so sweet his gentle ways

Just captivated my soul

He said I was so beautiful

But I blushed and insisted no

Then taking both of my hands

He held them to his heart

Now look at me my sweet little dove

I say this from the heart

You are to me a beauty queen

You take my breath away

Tears just fell as he whispered love

So sweetly in my ear

My heart just went all erratic

As he kissed my tears away

Never doubt me when I say

I will always love you dear

©Kaila George 2013

These late night poems, when I get down to thinking
More than under-the-sun dreams
I'm calm and under the influence of darkness
My ideas have been ripped at the seams.
Because right here, in the dark of the night and the clouds
I have seen when there's nothing to see
Right here in my lonesome with no one around,
I have been when there's nothing to be.
Under the sparkling balls of gases billions of miles away
I have understood the silence and innocence
The way the stars are simple messages of being alive
I understand my mortality, in a sense.
No, I'm not taking acid or any drugs,
And I haven't even downed any beers
However, I'm under the influence of stars
Glowing balls of gases for another million years.

It’s an odd thing, that certain something.
I remember not so long ago
A moment when I felt severed from all.
I was a phantom walking,
And I felt a certain kind of power
As I stalked those crowded halls.
I’d kept my hood up and my sleeves down.
And paced to the sounds of Sunny Moore.
I am bad was my thought as I gave cutting looks.
But I was only ever a fake.
All was a charade I used to keep the kids at bay
After one mocked me for my orange shoes.
“We don’t like fags around here, kiddo,”
Bucktooth said, knife in hand.
Soccer never was respected here, was all I thought
As I escaped without a scar.

Understand yet? Mine is the false kind.
And sometimes…. I’d just watch the cars.
All the while thinking that juvenile (yet grounded) thought:
We are like ants on this Earth
And even less than sand further on.
Mine were never the perceptible kind.
I couldn't show them as pail signs of the battle
I was waging because Mine was the fake kind.
Mine came because I wasn't sad enough
When a loved one passed…and then another.
I saw everyone crumble as she died.
I saw my entire family break down because of a flood
That took away everything we had.
But I was never sad enough for my liking.
And then as the cars sped by,
As the kids starting kicking my desk again,
As some girl flirted with me,
As someone ‘pantsed’ me in the locker room,
One thought remained, one source for what I named my certain something:
E------, you are less than sand. You couldn’t even cry for your aunt.
And not once did I ever act. Or will I ever.
But I will never be false again,
Just a little older, a little wiser
For knowing my certain kind of something.

Something silver and round
"They say its just an illusion
"They say it was a spark in the sky
"They say its not possible"
"They try to trick you and throw away the thought
But only i know the truth
The truth is in the sky!!!

my darling,
lets run away together
to the middle of nowhere
in the middle of the night
guided by the pale moon's glow
so we can lay side by side
in a wide empty field
and count the infinite stars
in the inky black night
reflected in your sky blue eyes
and all of the reasons why I love you

-sg

We weren't sick
   Until the doctor prescribed 
     Our lives away 

     I wasn't crazy
   Until they shamed me 
For opening my mind

You're not God
   Until you realize 
     We're everybody

If anything,
it is entirely your fault.

You lied and deceived,
too afraid of your own feelings
to step up and say what you wanted to say.

You undermined our inexistent relationship
with doubt that had no reason of existing
and the ridiculous notion that I would surely break your heart to pieces.

Am I breaking your heart to pieces now?
Am I?
The real question is, do you have a heart at all?

You pretend to be cold and collected,
but I know the truth.
You like things dark and twisted,
but only because you’re too afraid
of not deserving light and beauty.

If anything, you’re scared.
I was, too, at some point.
We all were, but that is no excuse for what you’ve done...
or more, what you haven’t had the courage to do.

You know me well
and you know I feel no need to cling to things.

If anything, I’m too detached
and you were no exception.
I need you to stay away from me.

I cared about you,
I did,
but it is done.

You killed it and I buried it without a single tear.
We weren’t and now we will never be,
for above all I value honesty and courage,
and you, sir, are a liar and a coward.  

I bid you a good day

Let your mind flow.

Let the thoughts swirl.

Let your words come out of nowhere.

Out of nowhere.

But somewhere something happened.

No cliché figurative flickering fluorescent set you off, no slight nudge sent you snowballing; no, you've been lit on fire. You don’t know it, but you’re burning. But that flame is not the one nestled neatly in your grandmother's fireplace, nor the uniform petals licking up at underside of her tea kettle. It is a forest fire, raging and impatient, intent on turning over and devouring every leaf of your inspiration until you let it out. From far away it might appear to be merrily orange, but underneath it's blazing blue and white.

Maybe you can feel it. A burn like that would leave a mark.

Those stories that crackle from your tongue are going to tear this world down and replace it with one of their own. The energy they create is irresistible. It will consume you like old newspapers in an autumn bonfire.

Yes, it will consume you, just like the search for the perfect word. Remember? That tickling on the tip of your tongue that will not go away, not in hell, until you can name it. You’ll wrack your brain for hours, sometimes days, as though it were a cluttered attic and in the most hidden corner huddles your word, grinning impishly when you stumble upon it. That quest that devours your mind again and again is only the beginning, the end, the in-between, the pinpricks of color on your canvas that make up your painting, your masterpiece. And it will be a masterpiece. Your beginnings and your ends and your in-betweens will become a wonderful whole.

But, a warning. The window to your mind is not the lens that everyone will look through. Those whose opinions distort their sight will tell you your beginnings are simply weak scaffolding, your ends have loose threads that remain unsewn, and your in-betweens are only the unoriginal fluff of a muddled mind.

Their words, however, are only kindling for your fire.

Watch them burn.

They will learn to respect the writer.

in the second grade
I wrote you a love letter
on lined yellow paper
in my very best cursive
with my special blue pen
and signed my name
at the bottom of the page
with a heart and xo's
then folded up the letter
into a little yellow plane
and threw it as hard as I could
expecting it to glide through the air
but the little yellow plane
crashed before if reached you
and my paper plane
was crumpled and crushed
like I swore my heart was
when I had a crush on you
back in the second grade

in the seventh grade
I wrote you a poem
on lined white paper
in curved loopy scribbles
with my favorite pen
and signed my name
at the bottom of the page
with a lip gloss kiss
then I folded up the poem
so it would fit in your locker
and hid it inside
then waited patiently
for you to open it
then ran to the bathroom and cried
when you finally did
and laughed at my poem
and threw it away
like I wanted to do to my heart
when you broke it
back in the seventh grade

in the eleventh grade
I wrote you a letter
on my white lined arm
in angry bold letters
with my sharpest blade
but didn't sign my name
at the bottom of my arm
I instead slashed a red x
on my pale scarred wrist
and kissed it with
bloodstained lips
then waited patiently
for the red to trickle down
my white lined arm
and the world to go black
and for my heart to stop beating
the way that it finally did
when I stopped loving you
in the eleventh grade

-sg