you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

I could never tell you
exactly what's going on inside my head,
so I'll write instead.
Drown my thoughts in paper & lead.
Keep my hands alive,
and my expression dead.

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I think I wrote this 30 times not knowing how to explain or shape the sentences but here goes nothing

Pop, one pill in the morning.
This one will make you happy

Pop, one pill at lunch.
This one will make you numb.

Pop, one pill at night.
This one will make you sleep.

Pop, another, whenever.
This one, will calm your heart,
Make you get out of bed in the morning,
Make your work harder,
Make you concentrate,
Make you
Make you
Make you

Alice feels jealous, her pills make her larger or small
But not happy.
But Alice doesn't know,
After every pill,
Headache,
Nausea,
Dizziness,
Fatigue,

Alice feels, but I don't

Three hundred sixty-five days and some other dozen
After pills
Slowly but surely
I started feeling again
Sadness had a taste
And so did food
Laughter had a meaning
and so did tears.

And If you ask me what I remember of that time,
I'll tell you, not much.
It is no way to live, when you live numb
When you should feel things, but you don't.

When the struggle is no longer sadness, but the lack of it
When it is not finding happiness, but not feeling it..

Another three hundred sixty five days and some dozen
I feel things on my own
Get out of bed on my own

After pills,
I pray nothing gets in my way of feeling things on my own.

It's 3am

I'm on the phone
No one's awake and I'm alone

It's 3am

The radio's on
Songs are played on lonely station

It's 3am

I'm in my bed
My eyes are open and sleep has fled

It's 3am

I'm on the balcony
The sky is dark and just quite scary

It's 3am

Some windows have lights
Could they also not sleep tonight

It's 3am

I'm still awake
When will life ever give me a break

The Ritual
By: Yue **** Yitkbel
Friday, July 17, 2015
I gently slit open the front zippers
Of the charcoal stained book bag
And reached in with the precision of a surgeon
Taking out an army green box
The heart of this unrequited tale:

The box squealed a pointless yelp
But, as always, I never responded
And, so I proceed
Taking out the red blue Murano quill

It was never yours, and always mine
But through these regretful years
I always kept it dear
It was the last
Token of our silently syncing heartbeat
Now slowly failing over time
Then, here and there
Alive once again, catching me by surprise.

I touch along its length
Like a dear old friend
Like a familiar and faithful patient
Check his health, wish it well, and
Send him back to his paper home

Like a ritual
I turn it around
And stealthily place it back upside down
For, that is how I remember her
The back of her hair, the back of her coat, the back of her heels
Standing stoically and unmoved
Against the curtain of the Venetian Rain