You are my lover,like a father--
But I will never be your wife
And I will never be your daughter.
I am the skeleton locked in the closet
While you sit together, Sunday brunch
With sweet smiles and shared laughs
Over sentiments I will never be part of.
Family man with a happy home,
Why are you unfulfilled?
Lay with her at night, but your
Thoughts are with me, and night-time
Dreams will bring our lust to your solemn bed.
You love her, I know, but
Where once floods of passion brought you
To embrace has turned into a slow and
Steady river, and visions flash in your mind
Of wandering between between soft, young
Thighs, where pleasure is welcomed
Longingly between smooth legs in
Black boots with stiletto heels.
One last moment of freedom, rebellion and
Youth before all has fleeted and
Feeble mind and feeble body receive
No coy flattery or passing glance.
You are just a man, though, it's true;
and all men fall to the right woman.

Five sweet memories,
before I can unwind my thoughts,
before I can calm the world,
And justify my afflictions,
The bullet that heals the wound,
Overly aware of my spine twisting on the crooked mattress,
I count

Five.  We’re sitting on the bench in his backyard.
I’m too nervous to move.  
His words are rushing together in my mind,
but I nod gently anyway.  
Gazing at the night sky as he unwinds his past to me.  
He laughs, I laugh.  
He lays his head on my shoulder,
letting his soft hair press against my neck.  
I try to stop time,
Like a philosopher aching to solve the mysteries of human misery,
I have found pure truth and beauty,
but to no avail, time is a burdenous bitch

Four.  
We are hiking in the desert.  
We climb rock after rock, yet my joints feel nothing.  
He points out the best footing for me, and despite being an avid hiker,
I follow along, pretending to be grateful for his instructions.  
At the top of the cliff, we sit on smooth stones.  
Lightning strikes in a far off storm. We ooh and ahh at each blast.  
Flash
Darkness
Flash. A glimpse of his eyes
Darkness.
Flash. His lips
I turn towards him and he turns to me.  Our eyes light with each strike, but the stare holds.
And despite the flashes, we are cast in the darkness of our locked eyelids
Our locked lips
The lightning mixes with city lights and all is bright for a split-second
The numbness wears off, letting us realize the desert has become frigid.  
We race down the mountain, returning to our normal selves.

Three.  He hands me an old putter.
I laugh. He can’t be serious.  
He pulls out another and begins stuffing golf balls into his pockets.  
Shh, he whispers.  
He grabs my hand and leads me behind the house.  
We climb the fence and land ourselves on the 6th hole.  
He pulls me onto the green and drops two balls.
Ladies first, he chides.
Little does he know, I’ve taken many golf lessons
I win the first round.  
And the second.  
He wins the third.  
Two out of three, I declare.  
He mumbles, what do you want?  
I press my cheek to his, wrapping my arms around his waist.  
Inhale, exhale.  
Our lips touch.

Two.  
It’s six o’clock on a Tuesday night.
I am tired from work, putting the finishing touches on my homemade pizza.  
As I slide it into the oven, I hear the doorbell ring.
My brother calls my name.  
I try to pace myself to the door, but I feel as if I’m doing a full out sprint.  
I open the door.  
Orange roses hide his face, and I am the happiest girl in the world.

One.  The night is bittersweet.  
We spoon on the couch, holding each other as tight as possible.
His soft stomach in the small of my back
I listen to his chest, trying to memorize the pattern.  
I try to take in the small details.  
But no, time has never been my friend, and soon we are standing by my car as I try not to cry.
He places his arms around me and pulls me in closer.  
I know I should go.  
I know this might make it worse, he stutters, but I love you.  
And I love him.
And it’s over.
Once again,
I am trying to fall asleep in a hot, cramped room,
knowing that for every thought I think of him,
I am 1,000 thoughts further from his mind.

Here it comes
And there it goes
The moments gone
Before you'd like to admit
You thought too much
But not enough
You talked too much
Gotta shut your mouth
Some things are best
Left unsaid
Just leave it alone, babe
Please leave me alone

It is midnight
And I sit alone
Not another soul in sight
Contemplating complicating
Things don't need to be this way
Mulling over, tossing over
Things that should really be
What I really want
Is for you to come to me
As you are, just like that
I don't need eyes, don't need to see
Just need to feel you
And your lovely vibration
Touch my hand
Sit, don't stand
As I land
In the place I love the most

If now is a prediction of the future than i hope to exit now and explore other realms of options and opportunities to better map my future in order to achieve happiness or at least a sense of stability I need a stronghold or a fortress of some sort to protect my insecurities and help mask my Great Depression which consist of a decline of love and joy which has become a treat instead of a meal my moments of temporary happiness is so few and far between that I see no silver lining in my unfortunate situation called life one of my hopes is that I disappear into a world of nothing to sit in a room of no emotions and no stress nor noise just utter silence as if I reached in my head and set missiles on a mission of mass destruction of my mind and a goal of freeing my trapped thoughts I hope to achieve something greater in this room something beyond anything I've ever felt something related to peace.

I sit there watching her talk.
To the person she "loves".
Sadly, I watch the clock.
Flying like doves.

I took my hard earned money.
Bought her dinner.
Sometimes sweet isn't honey.
My time is cutting thinner.

Head on my neck.
Slowly getting older.
Chest is on my shoulder.
I'm motionless, like a boulder.

Waiting for something.
I want it and I don't.
If it becomes loving,
She'll say she won't.

Just to be there,
A traumatic event.
Fingers through her hair.
Yet, she had went.

One day was my chance.
I took too long.
The day she danced.
To that wonderful song.

It's a troublesome cycle.
I took too long.

My name is Haley Gilarwald
and I am a force of nature.

                                          Not too long ago, the stink bugs invaded our city
                                               Unlike aliens or the usual sort, these were just
                           plague.
Like swarms of locusts they came, but they never seemed to eat, rarely seemed to die.
They just clustered.
And wings, sounding like B-52 bombers, they rattled around the bare watt bulbs and roared, and I
Swear
to Jesus God
Drove everyone here mad.

                                                                          I hate the little bastards.
                                                                         I sit in my room, typing a dreadful paper for a dreadful class
                                                                         when that hell sound shows up.
(my floors, they are hardwood!)
and so I stood
notebook in hand
and skivvy clad
I played tennis with the swarming thing
they do not die!
like men, they only keep coming back
little war machines
buzzing at my discontent


                          NO MATTER HOW MANY I FLUSH, THEY ALWAYS COME BACK
                                                          THE                               SAME.    
                                                      (I am certain that they cannot die.)

Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
I guess
that we'll try to stay together
forever.

"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
teasing me,
you were the most beautiful then.
But-
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
or solidity.

Your back is growing fainter,
more distant,
vaguer,
quieter,
it's almost transparent now.

The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
The fact
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
And cry.  

The Villain-
was me.
The one who ran away-
was me.
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.

And
I say to the plaster
peeling wall-
"I'm Sorry."
Uselessly,
Meaninglessly,
inutility,
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
chair;
Wondering.

The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.
"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?
"Who knows?"
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?
"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
yourself?"  
--
--
--
I'm sorry-
My light was gone.
I'm Sorry-
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I'm Sorry-
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?

For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.

The beginning of the end,
tell me,
when does that time come?

The promise that our naïve selves made together
"Forever, Eternally,"
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence,
"Forgive me."

Blood rushes to your head
And your face is turning red
And every word that you said

Has a double meaning
But no one can see it
And they sit in the seats

As you stand on the stage
Just performing a play
But it's real everyday
     and they just applaud
Say, "you act so damn well for your age"
And you reply “yeah I know”
But you're spitting with rage.

You stick to the script
And say thanks for coming out
And you cry on the inside
But don't make a sound
Because whenever you do
Whoever's around
Sees it as a show
You're trying to rehearse
And in each verse
Cries the pain
That you don't deserve,
But you land face first
At the bottom of the pit
And you cry, and you cry
Like the other kids
Did
When they saw you on stage
And they watched you perform
While you cried
While you screamed
You wish you'd never been born.
Only you know
That after the show
Was when the acting began
And when you really performed.

There is a wooden window, circular
above a roses-in-ink embroidered couch
that complements and contrasts the curtain
of roses-in-mud that eloquently hugs
the wooden sides of the wooden window.

On this couch I sit in my suit and out I see
through the circular wooden window
waves with stretch marks and salty burps
dancing (for me?) with brave crashing crescendos
and butter melting bass.

This ocean could teach humanity
absolutely everything about sex
its voluptuous waves caressing
the horny seaweed and fucking
it for miles until it's washed (limp) ashore.

The couch back is hard and unused
speaking of the depravity of our angry age
whose asses wear bare the leather and studs
on the barstools in the club below my library
with its wooden window, circular.

I've yet to see a sunset or sunrise
in a place where I can see no land
but looking at the quiet reflections of rage on
the roiling ocean, on which I'm afloat,
I pray I do- I want to see it all aflame.