It wasn’t “I love you”
but at least it was goodbye.

Dallas, November 1963
Fifty-seven years since they shot Kennedy
Everyone saw then live on T.V.
what happens when you challenge
secret society

Some say the mob or the CIA
Either black or white, but the truth is gray
and long since buried 'neath Texas clay
right next to good ol' LBJ

I ask not what my country can do for me
Blood on her hands, Lady Liberty
Let sleeping dogs lie, leave history be
The truth died in Dallas, 1963

Steeping myself in slumber
and
going to do a number on
a dream.

Wizards.

Waiting for a spell is like waiting for a bus
they always come in threes,
buses on the road
and spells on the branches of magic trees.

She's in the mirror watching me in the mirror
watching her in the mirror watching me,
it's a game we play
the first one to blink makes the tea.

Not unlike needed caresses or gentle kisses,
the morning sun did bathe my upturned
face in needed glow of restorative warmth.
An encouraging respite after weeks of clouds
and rain to lift my flagging spirts, supported
and enhanced by the celebratory songs of a
plethora of birds, all this perhaps the shining
moments of glory in my entire self isolated day.

and it’s like that every time i close my eyes half way,
the world becomes softer,
lights blur out and cars look like lost stars
hurtling down the one way road; it’s not sleep nor awake, it’s in between some noise
and some far away traffic, it’s sailing slowly,  it’s dreaming on the way home with eyes half-open still remembering what you left behind

Poetry runs through our veins. Meant for cold hearted people, whose hearts are covered up with stains.
Until pure love is the only thing on this planet that rains.

Dear me,
Don't just sit
Rise, and pursue greatness.

Don't just watch
Go after what you want.

Don't just exist
Strive and start living.

Don't just dream
Work hard and aim for success.

Don't get tired
Keep hiking until you get to the peak.

In silence
diamond drop shaped tears
Falling  down .
Sparkling the cheeks
The child sits down on the floor .
In the silence of the dark.
An  innocent  little one in pain.
For whatever for
Who will pay the price.

arms run

blood drawn
kiss

love in the wild,
child

mouth -- opens up to
breathe

at last found

I am the deep, the sky in reverse
I have what you seek, for better or worse

I am the blue of infinite depth
I've swallowed the crews and cleared the decks

You are afraid or maybe intrigued
Of the place where you played and also was freed

Kiss me now like you did before
Give me your vow and the ocean is yours.

she woke up screaming
windows and china tea cups shattered
she blinked
another nightmare, she recalls

when was the last time she dreamed?

I'd like to cut my heart open
to take you out
or maybe
to see you one more time

They’d waited too long to say

“I love you”.

3 words. 3 syllables.

Yet they held millions of emotions unspoken.

and now that they’d done it, they wouldn’t,
couldn’t, stop

they told each other all the time. In the end of the argument and before the good news.

In the middle of the storm, even though it was hard to see, and after, when the raging winds had settled on a breeze

before the rising sun turned the sky pretty colors and after it flickered out and faded away into the dark

Underneath the stars that their love had been etched into

There was no love until death for them. Because it would never stop. Their love was beyond. It rose above any border that would dare to try and stop it. There was no finish line

because they were each other’s end game.  
-L.R

the soft ''i love you''
we whispered as you left,
will forever be burned
into my memory

tomorrow, darling,
you say to me ,
as you walk out the door,
and I drift back into sea

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

Everyone hates me.
I feel like I hate me sometimes.
I’m such a *****.
I’m not a nice person and people think I’m rude.
I’m just shy, and awkward.
And sometimes I’m not in the mood for people.
And I feel judged, and misconstrued.
I want to feel accepted, and appreciated.
I want to feel loved.
People hate me, and I hate me too.

i told you about it all
i told you all my secrets and the stories
the betrayals and the pain
i told you my biggest fears and my happiest highs
i told you it all.

you know more about me than i do myself.

please dont become a stranger with my deepest secrets.

To this day,
your name
still hurts my tongue
but I still say it anyway.
Sometimes I like to
hear my soul
gently tear itself
apart.

Love Is A Beautiful Thing You See,
But It Contains so Much Pain When It's Done

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.