The pretty girl with the wide smile,
that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
The happy girl with the loud laugh,
that doesn't want to socialize.

The quite girl with the long sleeves,
is starting to feel like a fraud.
The perfect girl with the straight hair,
is getting tired of the façade.

The pretty girl has a fake smile,
and is filling her body with cuts.
While, the perfect girl with the straight hair,
is puking out her guts.

The happy girl with the pretend laugh,
spends her nights crying to the stars.
While, the quiet girl with the long sleeves,
has a body full of bruises and scars.

So, not everything is as it seems.
Because, while everything seems fine,
these girls are full of silent screams.

I remember you telling me how you thought highways were poetic.

There’s a spot I like to go to at night that overlooks the pacific highway,
a wall covered in vines,
I sit there and feel calm.
I can see the poetry in the way the red and white bleeding lights stretch along this road to nowhere.
I can see the poetry in the way each car holds a human
who is living a life that is not mine
and how each life is different
and how for a brief moment these lives are on the same path.
The man on his way home from work,
who has no one to go home to but a dog,
he is tired and he is a hard worker.
He remembers that he is out of milk so he takes the next exit.
A woman who just came from a first date,
who is disappointed because she isn’t sure if she’ll connect with another person the way she connected with her ex-lover,
she regrets the lies she told.
Their cars race forward
and their lonely thoughts chase them home.
These cars are going so fast,
I find it hard to focus on one for more than a moment.  
However,
there is poetry in the way that I am still, while life is going fast.
They say being still isn’t progressive.
They say being still will get me nowhere.
But, I am grounded when I am still.
I am savoring every fleeting moment.
I am taking my time to get to where I am supposed to be and I am not even sure where that is.
I remember you telling me how you thought highways were poetic.
Tonight, I'm thinking that too.

In the distance I see them,
Dark billows unfurling
A canopy of grey across the horizon,
Forcing the sun into seclusion.
The rain is coming.

In cadenced formation they advance,
Nimbus clouds on the march,
Curtains of gossamer white hanging
In their trail. The rain is falling.

The hills sigh with relief,
Refreshed at this sweet aspersion,
Renewed and restored
By the Providence that
Established their foundation.

The rain has stopped.
The clouds roll on to distant lands, impelled by a cycle that will see
no end.

And all the earth lies content
In quiet meditation,
Radiant on a bed of primordial mist.

I Have All Kinds of Words

...that I can express
poetically,
or pathetically,
or with apathy.

Which of these would you like?

I breathe in.
I breathe out.

The air is cold--
Or maybe that's
Just me.

My hands are icy,
But that's nothing new.

My heart is racing,
But I have yet to hear from you.

I can feel my pulse,
But I can't feel any blood.

My wrists don't ache,
But maybe they should
And I'm confused
Because isn't that
How anxiety presents itself
In the physical form?

But maybe this isn't
Anxiety.
Or maybe I don't
Have a physical form.

I breathe in.
I breathe out.

He whispers something kind under his breath.
Something that makes me stop going towards that light.

Something like
"I wouldn't want you to keep talking to me
If it makes you uncomfortable."

And I stop and I look over my shoulder
And he's looking down at his feet,
Remembering something good,
Something fun,
Something real.

I hear him again
"You're so kind and good. I'm sorry that happened to you."

And it makes me feel sick,
Because if I'm so kind and good,
Why did you leave?

And then I hear it
Over and over and over
Like the ghost of ex's past.

"Abuse abuse abuse abuse"
All my friends and loved ones
Chanting what a monster you are.
That it was all a game
All  a sham,
An act.

That it was just an act to you.

So I turn from the light.
And walk into something I'm new to.

I walk into the warmth of
Something I don't recognize.

It's called friendship.
It's called kindness.
It's called human decency.

You should look it up.

I breathe in.
I breathe out.

It will never tell its secrets
Old boards, an audible moan
Holding up the sagging roof
A crumbling foundation of stone

The years have done their damage
The summers of scorching sun
All the wet and icy winters
A battle with nothing won

An old harness in the corner
Wearing its coat of dust
A plow no longer plowing
Growing a harvest of rust

If we would only listen
Oh, the stories it would tell
Of barefoot kids in the barnyard
Mama ringing the dinner bell

Tonight will be the last night
That it shadows in the sun
Tomorrow it’s gone forever
The old barns race is done

the rain drowns the city's noise,
all you can hear is the storm knocking on your door.
potholes filled with muddy water,
traffic officers standing without umbrellas.
the poor stand outside and wonder
if they'll get some sleep tonight.
the rich pose for another picture
with a fake smile.
commuters cursing the rain gods and the government
for not using their taxes to fill holes with more cement.
the storm has been knocking on our doors
we've been too busy to answer it's call
but now it has let itself go
and the city has drowned before dawn.