How is it that my intuition, usually so on my side, can be wrong?

Perhaps it's not.

It tells me that you hate me. That you want nothing to do with me after how I reacted. That you wanted to say it much earlier but just wanted to spare yourself my reaction. That I'm way too sensitive.

I wish these things were wrong but I've no intention to assume so, not after thinking things over until 4 am when my brain and my heart are crying out for rest.

My intuition tells me to believe that it's not your fault. That it's happened the same way so many times before- I'm told no, then a rebounding yes, then an overwhelming no that leaves me in a shell-like trance gasping for air and grappling for hold of my emotions. It wasn't you, it was Fate. I'm not allowed to be happy, how is that your fault?

I wish this was not how life had chosen to treat me, but how can I change the patterns it has set for me? I can't expect that things are going to miraculously become one hundred ten degrees better because of a ****** set of words I post on a site where no one reads. Even if I were posting on billboards, it'd make my situation that much more laughable.

Maybe it's my mental state. Maybe it's the insane amount of time I have to spare in which I let my feelings elevate too much, scaring off any possible chance there ever was of perhaps feeling whole for the first time in I can't even remember how long.

Maybe it's my intuition.

Maybe it's Fate.

Oh really?* interrogated her cunning eyes, Speak you the truth?
Doubt what you will, mine glowered in return, the ice melting to fragmented liquid between my fingers. **But truth and desire are the same thing, no?

Give him your eyes
Let him stare for h o u r s

Give him your lips
Let him kiss them till they're cracked

Give him your mind
Let him rampage in your thoughts at one in the morning.

Give him your body
Let him touch what he wants to keep his sanity

Give him your sanity
In exchange for sanctuary

Give him your soul
Just so he won't hurt you

But he does....
Luckily, you didn't give him what you value most.

You didn't give him your heart.

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to live unafraid
in a world apart
in a dimension of fear
to have hope and love
in times where I tear
to rise up above

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to let it rule
or tear apart
for of it I have fear
to lose hope and love
but i'll not shed a tear
but wait for attention from above

her eyes looked down at the broken glass
and the petals drooping between her toes
and knew what it was
to be alone

My mind
Likes to deceive me

I find someone
truly someone

And they're shattered from me
by a gas smaller than I can see

Shattered into a reality
I've been avoiding my whole life

Dear young, hopeless Cherie
How shall I hope to survive?

We are sorry for the inconvenience.

While our project has made some headway- a new and improved venue coming soon!- there are a few impasses that have come to our attention.

Once we eradicate the hurt feelings, loneliness, and confusion from our work site, rest assured our progress shall continue.

We are sorry for the inconvenience.

He had it coming, he only had himself to blame.
If you'd have been there, if you'd have seen it, I bet you you would have done the same...*
So don't come crying to me that he's depressed.
Where were you
when I needed that support?

If you just ask me to out my blades on your nightstand while casually checking your email on your iPhone, it won't happen.

If you offhandedly remind me to eat while heading out the door for a few hours, it won't happen.

And if you tell me living is worth it while slapping me in the face with a ton of mistrust and coldness, it won't happen.

Trust me.

she follows me everywhere
does what I do
says what I say
brews what I brew

she wears what I wear
and eats what I eat
plays what I play
and meets who I meet

she cries when I cry
and talks how I talk
she drinks what I drink
and walks where I walk

but to think what i think
is not her cup of tea
her name is depression
and her target is me

Tell me a tale of the sparkling seas
full of odd riches and timidity,
covered in lives lost with nary a thought,
stained with the coral-bound lessons you've taught.

Weave me an epic of the gold-crusted clouds
that filter through air and make not one spare sound,
filled with the voices of chanting young boys,
and all of the most heavenly ilk of noise.

Spin me a story of leaves green and pure
which drift toward the heavens with sensory ores,
that make for the sky as they stretch emerald-tall
before the time comes when they just have to fall.

Can't keep my eyes from melting
Those tears that they've been smelting
Because loneliness is pelting
Poor young, forsaken me

Can't keep my eyes from wondering
Why silence is now thundering
Between us and its sundering
Poor young forsaken me

Can't keep my eyes from missing
Those lips that I've been kissing
But now they keep on enlisting
Poor young forsaken me

Enlisting me to cry and
Enlisting me to try

Because if he's not here beside me
Then I might as well have
Died.

One day I swear I’ll figure out
If I was who you were writing about

Down
          Down
                     dOwn
                                   doWn
                                                doWn


















.......wish I could ask for help from down here.....






But I'm not an attention seeker.

Just a groundling.....

What we shared today wasn't just a hug....

It was a surprise.

I came into those arms expecting a brief enclosure....
And received stone walls that wouldn't let me leave.

Do I like being closed in, do you ask? You think I'm claustrophobic...because I pulled away?

If only there was more time.

Close those stone arms and take me captive.

I wouldn't mind at all.

Just because it looks like I'm paying attention
doesn't necessarily mean
that I'm not pondering Shakespeare.

Roses are running through my irises,
pentameter bleeds through my veins,
and inwardly,
Macbeth reigns.

So know that when you look my way,
I may be listening in...
But more than likely, you will find
Shakespeare will always win.

not gonna ask you to stay
not gonna wait for an explanation
don't know if i should leave or love or cry
won't sit and play little games
won't hurt and take all the blame
don't know, so i'll keep screaming at the sky
if love was a myth then it's all just pretend
so i'm shooting at the stars
cause it's not gonna end

Because of me.* She let me stand, snow falling off my bare legs like a shower of ash. Because of us.
What us is there left to lie about... My legs tensed to run. **Who can lie about what is in plain sight?

Up is up, so down is down.

Red and green means Christmas, obviously.

Birds singing? Happiness.

Rumors equal catfights.

Cheating leads to divorces. Multiple.

And this poem is about you. Duh.

I hate feeling like I'm dropping bombs.
And it's always on someone who doesn't deserve them.

You never asked for me to confuse you or to make you wonder how to put your feelings into words.

And Im so sorry I would ever even deign to pressure you.

Don't associate with me.
I'm toxic.

happier than i can remember
sadder than i can remember being
as the sparrows sit on my windowsill
and sing in dirge
I'll cry with happiness
and mourn with joy

I have what she wants.
It's mine to enjoy.

Somehow I'll make it up to her.
Somehow, repay joy.

is where all the ropes swing free
from the willow branches
with no inhabitants to wish them
a steady tugging downwards into
the grass and magma flowing below

Ignorance filters through the air likened to a plague
as the screens fill the silence
with plasticized glowing.

What adventures are we missing?
Ivanhoe, Dunsinane, Middle Earth?

Between the pages of our very busy lives, we miss
the written out thought processes that inquire
after why exactly we are so hellbent on
radiating our only pair of eyes out of our skulls
with the futile use of nonrenewable energy.

How is it that something so natural, so ******
between the lines of our genetic makeup
can be filtered out all within the means
of a filtered lense and a shining
artificial light?

I digress.

You get
a degree for remembering,
and all you had to do
was pass a test about
Abe Lincoln
and the Zhou Dynasty.

A degree for remembering;
you claim, "It's my major."
You pore over books that explain Henry VIII's malice;
you want a degree for remembering.

What sweeter sound is there to your ears
than the utterance of an educated reference
to the history of our forefathers?
A degree for remembering
will grant you that satisfaction.

History majors.
College American History professors.
Degrees for remembering.
Think...and understand.

I need to put out
My love for you

Don't you think
It's
Crazy

That I want to be a singer
And an actor
And a painter
And a writer
And a race car driver
And president

But I can't even be happy
With my sexuality

And it's not my fault
But yours?

Swirls are better than slashes,
and I can tell you why.

Swirls are better than slashes,
for they help you up to fly.

Swirls are better than slashes,
with ink instead of red.

Swirls are better than slashes,
but they do not help your head.

The watermelon's tears alighted lightly against the bloodstained perfume, and when the steam cleared, light was visible filtering through the fingertips of the victorious battle-bound man with the paper crown. Was this ice and freezing of the tongue to be his reward for the conquest of the wooden palace of Arbol? We would soon see...

"Home is where the heart is."

My heart has been on vacation,
got lost at the station,
missed it's connecting flight,
has come down with a plight.

It's missed the school bus,
forgotten how to trust,
spilled coffee in its lap,
fallen into a trap.

It's still playing dress up,
afraid still to mess up,
losing its car keys,
crying after a tease.

If home is where the heart is,
a place where a warm hearth is,
then mine has missed the boat
for I'm still just out afloat...

When the world is weary
Your problems have converted
Into a silver gold chorus
Of pots and pans

When your arms are tired
Because of the wooden
Hard grained electricity
They carry

Drop yourself
Into an armchair
Of silken iron and platinum
And drink the splendors
Of the barrier reef

he wanted an uptown girl
but she was from down home
country

that sugar shaker was just
too sweet for him to
handle

Shouldn't nine hours of sleep
Be enough?

Someone's gotta tell me
Why my life's so rough

I used to be able
To play my own games

But now I'm so tired
I've forgotten my own name...

I'd make myself a ticket home
But the destination's poor
For he's not where my family is
So I'd be left wanting more.

In the silence, there is a sound.
Nay, it cannot be heard
by the naked ear
but rather by
the naked eye.

In the darkness, there is a light.
Nay, it cannot be seen
by your barren eye
but rather by
the passers by.

Watch your love, and watch your life
For in itself, beauty's strife
will take a hold
on your lowly, downed life.

Unfiltered lenses cover eyes
create a day where no one spies
on hearts of truth and hearts of lies
no one hurts and no one dies.

Beauty is in the unseen, unheard.
And one day, one day
more lessons shall be learned.

I'd like to pretend for a moment that I was a poet.

My words could mesmerize
and my glance could be seen to be more philosophical
than Socrates and Plato bound together
in chains of writing
and time

My very breath would wisp along the lines of insanity
and my heartbeat, keep time with the frenzied
dance I keep my toes working through
on this tightrope
I have strung
so tight and high

And my heart?

It would be taken.
And it would be happy.
And not confused.

Hard
Cold
Unfeeling
Prejudiced

You are my Darcy
and I love the pain.

try to unsee the horrors you've dealt me, the crosses burnt into my thighs.
then ask yourself...
did you ever really care?

To feel like something is lacking, a something
that keeps you in line, a something that helps
you to think, a blunt "no" from a blunt someone

What were you going to say
Before my heart got in the way?

You're not displaying sentiments of sadness and deepened emotion simply because you wish that I, through hearing them, may feel a sense of calm and clarity over what has been done.
No.
You're speaking this ******* so that you feel less guilty, that you lessen the pain on yourself, knowing that you've said I'm sorry to the person who calls themself victim.
You ease your conscience whichever way you see fit.
And I'll ease mine.

They’ll tell you nothing tastes sweeter than life
When all they’ve tasted is defeat

Dearest:

If I could touch you just once, then I'd be whole, I swear.
Sitting here letting youtube shuffle like the muddled thoughts within my mind, you're all that won't dissipate into thin air.
All Time Low, then church tomorrow morning, why won't you leave?
Are you lonely?
Do you need someplace to stay for a while?
Well, my arms and ears are open. Stay here a while.
Rest.
Everyone says "shes an invalid" and "she needs help", but I know it's not true.
Because if she feels half what I feel, all she needs is me.
And I need her more than the breaths I take, the words I write, and the ideas I spout.
One day, we'll be together again, angel, angel, angel. My angel.
My one and only angel.
And I can't wait for the day I can roll over in this same bed where we kissed and see your sleeping eyelashes fluttering admist your sleeping sighs.
I won't be doing much sleeping.
I promise.

If your heart
Was as soft as your hair
We would still be
On the same
Stem

hate me, hate me,
go ahead and hate me
slate me, slate me,
you know that i am lost.

harp me, harp me,
you know you want to harp me
start me, start me
onto the path of spirals.

change me, change me,
try if you dare to change me
play me, play me,
for the game i am.

but love me, love me,
why would you ever love me?
you're above me, above me,
and i'm just on the ground.

i'll find myself
in a shattered drumbeat
on the waves of a newfound cry

when the sobbing hits
one ladder rung lower than before
and i decide that my feelings must live or must fly.

It's hard rereading.

You can reread your history
or your notes on physics,
the life of Marie Antoinette
or the dead Mayan mystics,
but you can't reread
your own poetry.

Why not?

When you read anything but
the things you have scribed down,
the emotions don't fly off the page
or take your heart to town,
high on the feeling that
rereading your own poetry brings.

But how?

My poems are usually written
about loves I once had
and that meant the world
until they soured into bad.
These vent sessions don't normally rhyme,
and take lots of time to write.
But I still reread them.

Terrible as they are,
guilty as they make me feel,
I reread.
and reread.
      and reread.
             and reread.
                    and reread.

My whole being feels stuck
on the bottom of someone's shoe;
forced to go down the path I don't want,
sticking to the past,
stuck to the future,
and unable to enjoy the present
presented by the present present.

*rereads

If you loved the thought of me as much as you love the air you breathe
with the passion of a hundred lights of night fire
with the greenness of a parlor fireplace

If you waited for what is clearly yours within the skin that traps me
with the tenacity of a tigerlily
and the brutality of a butterfly

If you wanted what lies beneath the cold hard marbles beneath my eyelids
with shyness befitting a lion
and coldness that wisps from deep within the earth

If you did
why are you
so far
away