As pleasant chatter echoed from within the coffee shop
I lurched backward at the kick of a scorching cappuccino to my lips,
Clumsily sloshing a few spiteful drops onto the beechwood table.

Reaching sheepishly towards the nearest napkin,
My gaze fell inadvertently in the direction of a
Comely young woman sitting alone at a nearby table,
And I immediately became possessed by her presence.

My hands reached for my backpack in animation,
Fiddling with the zipper and unearthing a spiral notebook,
Flipping anxiously to a blank page on which to draw.
It became apparent that I discovered a muse.

With her hair hanging loosely in caramel curls,
The girl stared at her novel in placid fixation,
Delicately perusing each word in hopes of
Absorbing each ambiguous connotation.

My pencil scampered fervently while she flipped a page,
Dipped her little finger into her petite cup,
Mingling the whipped cream and murky coffee,  
And sampled her caffeine creation with a succinct sip.

Though I toiled with haste in fear that her attentive eyes might
Wander and spot me in my mad state of artistic enchantment,
I captured every angle and curvature of my subject in my notebook,  
Once finished, I could not help but be in awe of the masterpiece I’d created.

After a hearty slurp of my now tamed cappuccino,
I held my drawing up to compare it to my muse,
But to my astonishment, she had disappeared.
Dainty fingers tapped friskily on my shoulder.

“Well done,” the girl quipped, analyzing my work admiringly,
Then snatching the notebook from my quivering hands
And replacing it with a crumpled napkin on which she
Had scribbled down the digits of a telephone number.  

“See you this evening. Don’t be late!”

Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.

Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.

Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.

Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.

Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.

As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.

My favorite part, before the white falls, is the second the frost covers it all

My favorite part, before crimson rises is the second before you feel the sting

My favorite part, before the grey comes, is the second the sky is still blue free of clouds

My favorite part, before you say you love me, is the look of passion that fills your eyes

My favorite part, before I wake, is feeling the rays of yellow fill the room

I like the moments before action happens,

I sat in the field of broken homes,
watched the sun shine bright, down where nothing roams
I heard the sharp violins cut through the blades of grass,
bass rising from the ground, sounds of only the lower brass
I laid back my body, and threw forward my mind
to rest where the drugs know my name, but they know I don't mind
Reading this, they'd probably say I'm sad,
But only I know the true meaning,and I would say, I've been had

When the cold people come out, come out from their earthy graves,
They creep to your windows, and slip under your doors.

When the cold people come inside, come inside to reach into your whole,
They flood your mind, and rush your soul.

The cold people come into your memories, make scenes seem more sinister than they are,
They make you lash out, leaving to others only fresh scars.

The cold people cause you to leave,
when you shouldn't,
when you usually wouldn't,
pushing you to drastic measure you thought you couldn't.

The cold people are the memories of you, the body of me you buried in your yard.
The pictures we burned, the lesson you never learned.

They only come for me, they will not set me free. But I know you refuse to face yourself, so I hope you're happy, so ignorantly free.

I remember the way you shook, you quivered,
You soaked every word up that my mouth did deliver.
You told me I was beautiful, for a second a believed you,
Only for you to pull me closer, using my body to relieve you.
Our tongues entwined, our bodies twisting,
I whisper I Love You,
I receive nothing more than shushing.
You took my weakness, made it your pleasure,
Your deepest parts becoming my ultimate endeavor.
You told me to trust in you, when only I should have lusted you,
For after I delivered my desires,
you made me feel ugly, vain, sick, and twisted.
And now I have so many pains, they cannot be listed.
I write my poetry, as you see the pain in my eyes,
You know you're the cause, don't act as if it's a surprise
But when you do this, all of this, and don't have the guts to even sit near me in a room full of friends,
No one has the right to tell me when my pain should end.

I heard them saying:
"she goes places sometimes".
I knew they meant I leave sticky notes on their mirrors saying "I'll be back, but don't wait up".

I knew that they meant that I sometimes take the long way home for the view, even if the view is the industrial sight where my ambition died.

I knew they meant that, there are voices in my head that are screaming at me dark thoughts, so loud that sometimes they can hear them too.

I knew that they meant I don't wear yellow anymore because I'm afraid I'll go blind; that my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light that surrounds me.

I knew they meant no harm.
I knew they didn't want me to hear them.

I knew they meant that I practice holding my breath for countless minutes just incase they catch me playing dead in the bathtub again.

I knew they meant that I read the endings of books before starting them so I won't be disappointed. I knew they meant that I'm tired of being disappointed.

I knew they meant that I am weaker than usual; that I don't wear as many sharp edges or that I don't smell like kerosene after it's been set on fire.

that I don't ignite at the sound of pistols, I just welcome bullets.

that I don't walk on the perimeter of the ocean, I just drink the water till the salinity makes me see the world in different colours.

that I'm not afraid of heights, I'm just afraid of falling.
that I wear a kind of loneliness that doesn't wash off.

I knew they were trying their best to be gentle,
but I was trying my best to be tough.

but when you light the world on fire time after time, you get tired of rebuilding walls.

you get tired of looking your best; of drawing attention; of wearing yellow.

you get tired of holding your breath, and you let in the voices.

and you take the long way home, and you don't feel bad that you didn't leave a note.