I am you* in unseen places
The you, which you ignore
Forgotten and left behind

I am you behind the play
The nails and glue
That hide behind the picturesque facade

I am you crouched in wait
Perched and ready
To be acknowledged as truth

I am you inside your words
Shared anonymously
Naked, alone, embittered and brilliant

I am you crouched in the darkest corner
Shadowed by pain
Seething in silence

I am you oblivious to the knowledge
That in this twisted loss of self
You are in fact...**me

butterflies
are flitting about my stomach
and down my veins
through my limbs to reach
my very fingertips and
urge me to pass them along –
maybe if you feel the same
our touch will send
sparks flying
and our lips colliding
and then everything will make sense.

i had forgotten what it feels like
to be wary of my posture
and my under-eye circles;
i hope you do not look upon them
and see the sleepless nights
of my past –
because since i have met you
i have never slept so well.

this anxiety all the time
is condensation falling from the glass
to the table
and fogging up the outside
so no one can see in.

my lips have only been stained
by recent 3 a.m. coffee breaks
and constant biting
my cheek and my tongue –
breathing has never felt so
difficultly easy
than it has
around you.

bold-w.l.w
7/13/14*bold

Wanderer,
on howling hope
love charms are weaved.

Stay for a while
in my porch,
hum a melody
and dance with me.

The night will linger,
all words hollowed,
all roads erased.

Yet, wanderer,
for just a while,
if you will,
enchant hope,
unchain this burst.

You sit at your screen
fingertips flying in the face of decency
like a spigot attached to a vat of arsenic
dripping your poison, slowly, surely into the ears of the unthinking.

You justify the burnt skin, the orphans, the unending torture as deserved.

Deserved?

How can it be so?

Go tell the orphan, scarred and screaming that her fate was deserved.

Go stand beside mass graves and thumb your nose at the deserving corpses, stained by the blood of ages.

Where is your heart? 
does it choke and sputter,
buried beneath your all encompassing loathing?

You call me stupid, maybe so,
my views naive, my compassion wasted
yet my heart beats proudly, swells with love 
while my tired eyes drown at the unfolding horror.

War is not a spectator sport,
it is not justifiable, nor deserved.

Call me stupid if you will, ridiculous if you must
call me any number of names in your attack on my spirit
I will not care, I will not bend or bow.
Your hatred will be your undoing.
Not mine