1233

Had I not seen the Sun
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made—

1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.

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.

Take control,
On this journey to soothe the soul
Into the Unknown, to a world you call your own
Where have you been?
To a place only I could have seen

Who are we when sometimes even stars are alone.

happy birthday to the boy that broke my heart

The color of cherries
of blood and wine.
The feeling of passion,
your skin on mine.
It’s on that sweatshirt
and your face too.
A can of cola
my favorite lipstick hue.
The way we always talk
neon lights at 4 o’clock
in the morning.
The kind of color that makes me deny
everything my mother ever told me.
The color of you and I.