I am afraid to give something my all,
to pour myself empty
to make something full,
only for it to be graded
judged
assessed
as
"Not good enough."

Its been so long
since I've poured myself
truly and fully
into a poem.

I am live wires in water.
My circuit of thought has been broken
Left me short-circuiting in the ocean.
Electrical bursts escape me
names thoughts
so incoherent
But almost spastically beautiful.
I need no one else to complete these wires
But I must find own current once more
Before I run out
Of
Power.

Holy pure angels,
tell me,
is Hell where you seek refuge,
once you've slipped out of Heaven?
Or is that the name of Earth,
after you took a visit?

Recently a poem of mine blew up and I wanted to say thank you all for it!!
The poem Edge was inspired by a writing prompt titled:

Write a poem using the phrase "the sky is on fire"

I came up with the poem from this line, and I wanted to say this because it feels wrong to not credit inspiration and a line to the original creator.

Melissa Jennings Twitter: @melissajenningz came up with the prompt!

So a big thank you to her for the inspo for that poem!!!

A woman and a knife:
The blade glistens,
ever sharply
in the rain that is pouring from heaven.

Her black hair sticks smartly
to the sides of a sharp face.
I trace my gaze
over a smart mouth
with red lips.

But her dark eyes
never falter with such desire.
Her cold stare ever fixated
on the knife's destination:

My chest.

Me and my problems
are like glass stained rain.
With clarity they show themselves,
soaking the glass
but there I stand,
unamused,
watching and doing nothing.

I'm listening to you speak,
playing that voice on repeat,
breaking my bottles
on my teeth,

chattering smiles,
loneliness bites cold
down to the bone.
Warm it up with a grin,
so fake,

but they don't see it.


Good.

Why would I want them too?

Between the lines of boredom
lie something so much deeper

skin cut
eyes shut

what is there to be interested in anymore?

Guns drip in your metallic coolness,
character breaks as often
as a bullet.

But who am I,
to judge a man
by his stoic presence,
than by his
gentle nature.

Gray soaked in silver linings,
I await for you here,
for that cool touch,
once more.

I sail on a boat
in the middle of sea,
sand and waves
calling to me,

skin unburnt
fights washed away,
as I say evening prayers,
to live another day.

Broken is broken,

whether it is a crack,

or shards on the glass floor.

Paint me blue with energy,
Gatorade bottles spilled on me,
take away the sadness of today.

The best kind of cold,
overtakes the forest tonight.
Chilling to the bone,
dripping wet leaves surround me in perfection.

Trees stand high,
but hoodies pulled almost closed keep me warm.

I am alone,
but the ghost of company remains...

Another nameless face
and another faceless lie.

If you have the courage to
twist the truth
in front of my face,

do it with pride
and look me in the eye.

Lie again and perish.

Ambition is written in her silhouette.
Grace flows from her evanescence.
Her shadows are the key to her intellect.

But then again that's all she is,
isn't it?

A mirror of perfection
a voice with inflection.

The ghost of who she is
is all
that's
left.

Stardust and luster puff
bloom in full petalled glory,
dancing decadently and delicately
in waves of motion
to the sound of the moon hitting skin.

Hues of lazy colors,
colors of royalty,
of lemonade,
of orange juice
of grape soda,
all sweetly mix together
in a concoction for auction
the eyes take it in,
every last sip of it is sold,
to the highest bidder.

The ocean the space of the earth,
a vast void that stretches like
an eternal blue blanket,
comforting in its view,
cold in its nature.

The aesthetical soul awaits, taking everything in through all senses...






































which drown her in their beauty.

Do I love or do I wait?
The response is a series of silent senses,
no thoughts.

Disobedience is the only form of love I inject into my veins directly.


And maybe it forever will be.

Who am I
to ask you to stay?

Does the moon beg
for the stars to shine forever?

I think not.

I reminisce in your memory,
and I bathe in your melancholy,
fireworks battle above
with destructive love and beauty,
but I do not watch them...











because I like watching you instead.

There is no love written in the stars,
simply in his eyes,
do not mistake celestial kindness,
for his loving glance,
for his,
is
far
better.

I sit here,
delusional, calm,
awaiting slumber,
between textbook pages.

Eyes hold me at gunpoint,
threatening to close,
now widen
with the promise of a new poem.

I find no comfort in the touches of strange,
the lies I read,
in their future
etched into their palm.

The eyes I can not decipher,
I find nothing beautiful
about that shade of green,
it sickens me
that her eyes,
I've found in another's.

Pour out to me a milky soul,
I cannot see its depth,
Some may find this uncertainty
exciting,
but to dive wholeheartedly
into the abyss...




Tell me, where you shocked when it hurt you?

I do not blame you,
for every person I meet
has a mist hiding their
intentions.

Everyone is a stranger.

The question now is

Are you afraid to live life alone?

The ocean's foam
consumes me whole
as I am tossed
back into the rapids.

I rattle like
air dried bones
on winds unknown.

Am I a debt to be paid?
Do you enjoy me,
because I enjoy you?
Do you love me,
because I love you?
Do you touch me,
because I've touched you?

Do you reap
only what you sow?

If the system is made
for us
to be put against one another
we will rise
and come together
in the dirtiest, most scandalous,
cheatiest ways,

to beat it.

Morality will not hold us back,
but be our compass.

Because at times,
one must be rebellious
against your version of "right"
to do the actual right thing.

Cage us and we will fly,
break us and we will  not die.
Believe me,

they cannot outlive nor outrun us.

Remember the fallen,
and when it is overthrown,
make them martyrs of
the new generation.

Trap us as you want,
but you cannot bind
a bird's wings
and
expect
obedience.

You cannot trap us
and not expect

rebellion.

I will throw gasoline on my inner fires,
anger boiling bursting bubbling now ****** waters.
We will paint the revolution in the ashes of our sorrows.
We will fill up the absence of justice,
paint them red


p a I n t   T h E M        R    E    D.


Anger flicks flames licking tongues on vocal chords.
Hate filled speech but aimed at the right people,
makes all the difference.



Let them fight fire with fire,
it's their land they burn, not ours,
ah the treasures of fighting in foreign land.
If I can call my body that.


We're tired of being upset,
we're tired of being controlled,
we're tired, kiddo,


So let's do something about it.









The revolution is at midnight,
we rise with the moon,
for we are among the stars in the dead of night,
bright light when there is nothing but darkness.



























R                         E                            D.

The reflection of the moon sits
in the middle of a pond.

My favorite thing to do as a kid was to play god.
I sat near the water with swaying willows
and the sharp scent of the night air
and dipped my legs into the sky,
coating myself with what I believed
to be heaven:
the stars and the
inky blackness below me.

Ripples in this water
were simple evidence
of my eternal and formidable
power.
Who else could cause waves in the sky
but God?

But no matter how hard I tried
the moon evaded me,
and I pretended we were friends
and this distance was nothing more
but physical space between us.

I could keep playing God,
and she could still have her space.  

I may have been baptized with the sky
and gone home
dripping with constellations,
but always wondered,
maybe all I had
was the space between
me
and
the moon.

I knew I was not worthy of her anointment,
but I pray whatever argument we had gotten into
would one day be resolved.

I no longer play God

But all I have now
is still the space
between
me
and
the moon.

And I wonder if I would have become God
if we had just
made up.

Mark me with the sin of desire
my skin is tainted flesh.
Communion wine spilled,
on the bride's wedding dress.
And when all is said and done,
I do's, blessings, and Amens,
They will consummate that marriage,
and live in the sin of regret.

Ignore your state,
and the doctors will only treat
the symptoms
and let the disease
fester.

You will die of consequences
placed in hand by yourself.

But then again,
you'll take every opportunity
to claw at relief,
now will you?

I'd rather die
than be in remission
for sins
I committed
that I never asked
to be forgiven.

True respect stems from love not fear.

If a child respects a parent out of love, and does something bad and gets away with it, their guilt will consume them and they may confess and do the right thing.

If a child respects a parent out of fear, they will simply be happy they did not get punished and avoided fear.

Romanticize yourself.
There is no overconfidence
nor cockiness
nor pride
in declaring yourself
the ruler
of your kingdom.

Yelling at the seed,
won't make it a flower.
Yelling at the stem,
won't make it grow faster.
Yelling at the thorns,
won't make it tower.

Therefore;

Praising the rose,
won't make it any prouder.

Angel's act with purity,
yet crave demonic pleasures.
They turn to heaven to be forgiven,
and rot in Hell whilst losing feathers.

I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

Bathe me in the sin
of communion wine on a Wednesday
and break the holy bread,
leave its crumbs on the floor.

I am the archer behind the moon,
shooting it into orbit each night,
glimmering stars lie in its wake,
as sunshine is no more.

I will drown
in streams of
salt,
running along a glass rim.

There is no hesitation
to pick up bird feathers
from off the ground,
and heal an angel's
broken wings.
But there is a pause
before we reach a hand
to the broken claw
of a demon.
Tell me now,
Are they both not in need of saving?

My sanity echoes,

wind moving past me faster than change.

Honey you and I both know things
are just...

not the same.

I bathe in the sound.

Music notes make good soap.

Wash away...

                           Whatever is still left.


Another day. Another day. Another day.


And my sanity




                                                is



washed








                                  
                                                                                                            Away.

If I hold my mind
above my GPA
would the numbers spin the same?

4.5 my ***,
I hate the way prideful disgust
enters me at teachers praise.

Parents proud at the cost of their child.
A "Your best is not good enough"
for every B received.

4 Cambridge classes, 2 college classes, a sports medicine class, four club-

"Your best is not good enough."

4.5 GPA, A in advanced classes, 11 exams this ye-

"Your best is not good enough."

Echo your complaints in the sound of the bottomless pit that is my word count.

I do not recall signing my sleep away,
when signing up for classes.

Some will understand,
some will say "That's life"
and disregard everything written above,
as a child's last attempt
to be saved
from a system
she is a slave
to.

How many intelligent friends do I have,
that refuse to take up their time with busy work,
that teachers scoff at?

Too many.

I spend this weekend doing a 1,200 to 1,500 word essay, a power point counted as an exam, writing over 70 slides of notes, rescheduling finals, then volunteering from 11 to 1, and do not forget to go to church.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

take a week and spend it in your child's shoes,
and find that
back talk is nothing but stress
built up.

I used my break today to write this,
Because God forbid,
I take 5 minutes to myself.

in conclusion,
mock me,
or relate,
The truth of the matter lies
bare in the numbers.

I care not how long this is or how many will save it or relate,

this poem is for myself,
I can only hope to have reached another soul.

You don't have to be their savior,
you don't have to forgive them,
you can just cut them out,
and be angry as you want
for as long as you need.

Heartaches are like knee scrapes,
they are either there for a moment,
or leave a scar that will last you a life-time.

I hide beneath the water,
gasping for air to breathe,
but the only air I need
is the familiarity
of drowning.

I rather taste
the salt in my lungs
than break the pain
of first breath.

I'd rather die
in this state
than give up
pieces of my 'personality'
for happiness.

Chaotic familiarity is forever a welcoming storming sea.

Often deserved,
yet seldomly effective.

Sometimes
it is hard
to spread your roots
in shaky grounds.

You are not obligated
to stay,
for you still are just a seed,
that the wind
can take
away.

She was serendipity in a bottle,
A fire in a jar without a lid.
She was the flower on the side of the road,
She was the garden in the dead of night.
She was moonlight bleaching dark clouds.
She was my favorite accident.
My serendipity.

The shadows on my walls at night
with their inky flowy forms
create words from lack of light
and their presence, I do mourn.

For the sun is an ugly thing
when you are a shadow, to be scorned.
My window filled with magic
the shadows; nevermore