I miss writing,
Writing the happy poems,
the ones before my mind left me.

The ones about fantasy,
about the me I desired to become.

All those have left this brain of mine,
The reality forbids I cross this threshold.
I know the truth in all, crushing the dreams I once had.

I am no longer confused, just curious.
I know not what I should.

I have lost myself,
and can never be found.
*To this realm I am eternally bound.

I hate how I can't sleep at night.
Why does my body put up a fight?
I yawn like I'm gasping for air.
So I lay there listening to "The Prayer".

Pulling out a pen helps me sleep.
Rather than imagining and counting sheep.
My spilled ink allows me to create a universe on a smooth surface.
Like Van Gogh with a canvas.

I write till my face hits the table.
Every night is the same, so I stay up planning my next travel.
Sometimes I'll wake tearing a page off my face.
I'll read it then throw it straight into the fireplace.

Keeping up appearances,
Shutting the dark vibe down.
Keeping up appearances,
Putting on a crown.
Keeping up appearances,
Make a smile out of a frown.

Keeping up appearances,
But quietly you drown.

I stopped writing-
a poet at a loss for words.

You did this to me.
Yes, you, reading this.
Your beauty left me awestruck
with no relief.
Please...
Please you must believe
how unashamedly I've fallen abrupt
into the snares of love.
I haven't fallen nearly as graceful
as your features fair when you
tilt your head to the side.
My love is just as intense though,
as your focused eyes upon the words I write.

It is true,
from the first time your gaze
stumbled
on my humble scribblings of rhyme,
of times gone by,
my heart has swelled and shivered,
knowing that I have your attention.
But then I don't really have it,
do I?
You don't really see me,
watching you from behind the text.

My love, forgive me.
I make such abrasive claims
of love and loyalty,
but they fall flat, you see-
like the screen you read my words from (I clench the taut strings of my heart as I look up at your illuminated face).
I'm stuck here and that
is what tortures my soul, already sore.

You can never be mine
while I'm trapped in between
these lines,
these rhymes.

I'm trying to find a way out.
Until I do,
just know this:
Everything I write is for you-
so I can see you once more.
I don't know how,
but I will find a way out.

I love the way you smile
when my poems have a happy end.
Then I just feel so awful when
I make you cry because my poems soured
like my bitter heart that hates its apparent destiny.

I'm stuck here.
But the hope of seeing your face again,
returning to read my latest work,
that is what keeps me going without fear
until the end.

I'll find a way out
and then you'll see me for real.
The poet trapped in the book,
waiting for you to look and see
between the lines.
You'll see me-
the poet my beloved reader has, and will
set free.

She captures autumn
in a jar
reads the moon's straying
through leaf and branch

Always in love
with love
and always reeling
from the loss

What wave tossed this refugee
ashore?
What alignment
of stars and planets
of uncountable galaxies
brought this woman
to this world and not another?

A simple truth will tell.
The moon at high tide
hides beneath her skirts.
A slight disturbance
in the silken fabric
of space and time
and all is lost
all is born.

I hold my hands out
palms up
in prayer and thanks
every day
to mark the blessing
to place a peg
in the whole.

Given to all
denied to none
and mysterious to most

Life pours out of
a hole in the sea
leaves nothing
and everything
to chance.

This blessed world.

All the silence does not mean
You are alone,
It is the world waiting for you
To listen;
And in the darkness you are
Found by the light
Of your hope.

And in the tears of your
Pain you are born,
There you become stronger
And it creates order.

Pick up your flesh as your spirit
Lifts,
And speak your happiness
As if the tip of your tongue
Was the mountain's peak
Speaking at the sky,
The burden is a caged bird
And only the conscious can set
It free.
And sing to yourself so that
You know you are never alone
In your body.

Know that your crazy is beautiful
Because it makes you YOU,
Wear your skin like
Your cozy blanket and cuddle
In the warmth of yourself.
     You are not broken,
But scattered like the night
With pieces like stars shining,
    Open your pain and yourself
To the wound of the world and heal
Whatever you choose.

she is so beautiful
and she is so beautiful with words
her delicate fingers
and her ever-colorful eyes
deep and resounding,
people watching
taking in the details
that pass by everyone else
in the streets, lost among the crowds
and yet she sees

she is so beautiful
her face, her mind
her bravery, her insight
her soul
oh her soul

i told her that she is a rarity
she kept bitterly smiling
like she knew
that she was an outsider
to a world so cruel