the air smells of crisp pale pink flowers
dappled by a gentle pitter patter of April showers
glittering, smiling white lightning crowing hello,
tonight nature is gentle with her babies.
the sweetest storm you've ever seen,
and the flora and fauna seem to exhale in relief
soaking up the fertile juices to grow strong,
as the birds silence their chirps to listen to her voice,
as the fawns lick and nuzzle their fellow deer,
and I've got to wonder,
is the spirit of my mother here?
this is why i love spring.
help isn't coming on horseback,
golden sun lighting its path.
help isn't a tall, strong man
with money and a nice warm laugh
help is small, futile,
lodged within my chest
buried by desperation
and nowhere to go.
The hero is me. The knight is me,
with my worn secondhand clothing,
and aging face and creased frown
heart aching still from so many lies
come to California, now I'll die in California.
But I'll still have child's eyes.
Can't just die. My babies--
I led them in,
now I must get them out of Hell!
They dreamed of fresh, flourishing fields
enough extra money to have garments with lace!
but now they have broken hearts
seeping through their child's faces !
Stop me if I hope too much
I don't want to hurt so much
God knows I dreamed so much
God knows I earned so much !
I'll give the last of my bread
sing broken lullabies to calm my children's fear
I'll die over and over and over and over
so that my babies don't have to stay here.
I'm sorry that we don't have a shopping list
I'm sorry that you go to bed hungry
I'm sorry that life is like it is
I'm sorry that I got you into this.
A smooth head tilt toward the sidewalk,
he gently gestures for us to cross
When ignored, he snaps a bent leg into place
as naturally as he's attracted to men
soft, intelligent eyes glinting through his rainbow helmet
His cycle stutters like he did when asking Jason out,
breathing out life like he breathed out "I love you",
a mustang anxious to rear up and gallop
He soothes the handlebars with steady palms,
then unleashes his bike's power
as soon as we're safe
on the other side,
off to meet up at a romantic café
with a man named Peter Ryde.
I was crossing the street this morning and saw the most passionate look in this motorcyclist's eyes. I had to write about him.
when I die,
leave me as I am
with my greasy face,
and the streaks of blood,
keep me as the disgrace
Let it be in the night,
so that you may see the constellations
that I always treasured,
wherein I found Cancer,
and felt that Mom might be there.
So find Virgo,
and find me.
Play the theme from
and believe that I am
in the stars above.
I'll be here,
in the dumps below,
shoulder to shoulder
psst, hey, see the girl
next to you?
you should hold her
bolder and bolder,
like a butch boulder,
they smile and
glance at my lips.
sweet hugs and
warmness touch and
talk of baking,
we'll make all the
get all the
is not a future
written in ink,
but here's hoping.
I want to cut my hair
I don't want to cut my hair
It weighs me down
drags me along the
trenches of gender stereotypes
People look at me,
"That's a girl."
And I'll turn the color
of diluted self-harm blood; pink.
Maybe I'll give
It gets all knotty
I keep it in a dull, bland ponytail
I don't think it deserves more
But if I cut it,
I'll still be in the stereotype
At their hair!
By the way!
And what if I look stupid besides?
I have no freaking idea whether to cut it or not.
Tears drowning chestnut eyes
As I sing brokenly along to "sing!" playlist,
Wincing inwardly at my awful voice,
Which is caught between male and female,
No, no, stop, no,
Don't even think about auditioning.
A career stopped in its tracks
before I can even dream.
It always happens.