As the sands of time
Slowly slither, silently on
As you try to grab a hold
It siphons through your fingertips
The harder you squeeze
The faster the flow
But when you open your hand
Spread your fingers wide
a small pile settles in the palm

When you hold on
It suffocates suddenly, simply still
But loosen your grip
And life flourishes as you will
Change is the only constant
Always remember the simple truth, that  
people are in your life for three reasons:
For a reason
for a season
or for a lifetime

Each one as important as the other
but none so important that you can't live without
each one just a lesson learnt
So be grateful for each moment well spent
Because after all...
All we ever seem to do is say goodbye

you figured out how to open the closed door
i stayed quiet

will you proceed

It’s no longer the escape it used to be,
My thoughts- they’re too full,
They can’t let me be free.

The gift of deliverance,
How I cherished it long,
The hours of relief;
All those times I was gone.

I was taken away,
With people I trust,
But the gate- it won’t open,
I’ve allowed it to rust.

All those places I travelled;
That wonderful feeling of welcome,
It’s all starting to fade now,
No…I can’t let this happen.

But I know it’s no use,
I’ve tried again and again,
Reality keeps intruding,
I can still see its grin.

Oh, how I wish I could go back,
To how it was before,
When I could walk freely in that realm,
When there was no lock on the door.

But instead I’m sitting, staring,
And all I see are pages,
It’s not like it used to be,
Where are all the dragons and mages?

I stare intently at the words,
But register only spaces,
There’s no one there to greet me,
No familiar faces.

This is when it happens,
When my reality takes the wheel,
It scares away my one reprieve,
It tells me what to feel.

No longer is there comfort here
Between this tattered cover,
My real life is weighing down on me;
Begging that I take over.

I gently close the book I love,
And resist the urge to cry,
But it’s time to focus on myself right now,
It’s time to say goodbye.

There are two mountains and a river that used to flow between them.
The water was pure and the whole world saw the carp that swam beginning with the current.
Beneathe this current lay a certain flower.
And within this flower stood something like a song
and within the song was this melodious tune
and the world stood silent.
The ocean is a wave that crashes to the rocks
and can never heal its pain
It is like a salty, foaming frothing that tries to break a heart
a selfish heart that will not open its doors.
That is the rock
but untill the end, when the water subsides
untill thee end so will
the rock

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

It’s a pitiful hilarity.

An early Sunday evening, a frantic phone call to a voice whom I’ve only met once, I think. We were chastising a mutual friend like the voice and I were two old pals, but I don’t think she knows my middle name, just that I feign being a good person, or rather, that what she sees is a good person.

Linnea.

We were talking about Linnea. About how she took the final step off of the pedestal we had all placed her on for so long. I saw her tumble down like her teardrops. She was well aware of her fall from our graces.

I knew I should’ve seen her plummet. But I didn’t. I saw a graceful descent. I saw finesse. I saw beauty.

I saw her levitate somewhere between the pedestal and the ground, and on days where I was feeling particularly vengeful, I wanted so desperately to see her streak towards the ground like a doomed meteor. I wanted to see her burst into flames as she came crashing to the Earth where the rest of us mortals live, far from the spot among the heavens to which we all assigned her.

On those days, I knew I wanted vengeance, but for what, I did not know.

I think it was for loving her.

No, it was for caring about her.

No... It was for loving the idea of her.

We both had major roles in our school musical. On the evening of the second performance, she gave all of the seniors tiny little cards in matching envelopes, like the cards you put in bouquets of flowers, that teenage sweethearts attempt to fill with novels, and old married couples just sign their name and “Love you.”

I didn’t open mine.

I think I wanted the contents to be something a bit more concise than an adolescent love letter and a bit more detailed than a 40 year old force of habit.

I wanted the card to be her. Everything that I wanted her to be. Everything that I wanted her to want to say to me.

I wanted her to be filled with giddy anticipation while writing my card as I am when I know I get to see her soon.

I keep the card in my wallet. Unopened, still in the envelope. I want to keep feeling that little twist in my stomach of anticipation every time I open it and I see the crinkled corners peeking out from behind the front pocket.

Writing about it now, I see how pathetic it is. How futile my conviction is every time I take the envelope out of my wallet and mull it over with my fingers, as if I am going to open it.

My wallet is my pier, the envelope my green light across the bay, and my legs and my mind are getting tired from playing Gatsby, waiting, hoping for a redemption of an imagined past.

It’s pretty funny actually.

This too is a pitiful kind of hilarity. The kind that makes my chest cavity quake as I slowly begin to roll my chuckles into one another, until I can no longer tell if my shoulders are shaking from laughter or light sobbing.

The punchline comes when I debate between grabbing the letter opener or the matches, but I was never one for timing, and I always place it back, neatly in the front pocket.

Sondheim said it well; this joke could use some clowns. Don’t bother, Linnea.

He’s already here.

Where did the old me go?
The one who didn't cry every night?
The one who never disappointed anyone.
The one who loved everything.
The one who always had a smile?

Everything morning when I open my eyes,
I worry about what's going on?
How am I going to smile,
With the pain I have.

When I look in the mirror.
I see pain.
When I look at my wrist,
I see scares.

No one really see 's my pain.
On one ask where my scares came from.
No one cares.
I'm standing knee deep in pain.