The Letters Of My Name

A is the first letter of my name,
I belong in the Facebook hall of fame.
Laura is the girl made for me,
she is awesome and she would agree.
Living in the lap of luxury,
and we don't need to be wealthy.
Everyday is filled with light,
the sun has never shinned so bright.
Never felt this happy before,
my two kids, I so much adore.
Wheels in the sky keeps on turning,
the bed in our room is always burning.
I used to be one ****** dork,
people always stuck me with a fork.
Living large, I wish came easy,
most of my jokes are a bit cheesy.
Because of all of you, I stay strong,
no matter if I'm right or wrong.
Everyday is filled with sunshine,
life itself is its own punchline.
Rhyming words is all I know,
when aroused, a part of me will grow.
Thank you all for your support,
still don't know the difference,
between a pint and a quart.
I used all the letters in my name,
I hope this rhyme don't put me to shame.

What dreams may come to me this night
yet disappear by mornings light
What visions there of you and me
my waking hours will never see

The touch, the taste, the smell of you
Is cast out by the sun
But in the first breath of a brand a new day
Lies the scent of dreams to come

You'll never get rich as a poet,
its not that you're not any good,
but your words get given away to the poor,
like you're a lyrical Robin of Hood.

Your words will serve as a comfort,
to women and children and men,
but your time and emotions flow freely,
like the ink from your fountain pen.

But lets be honest about one thing,
we don't do what we do for the cash.
Words are like itches we can't quite scratch,
and our poems the resulting rash.

So you'll never get rich as a poet,
at least not in a monetary sense,
but you'll have lived your life in the trenches,
and not watched it pass by from the fence.

i look at the burn peeling on my arm and i think about all the **** that got me here
from the red asterisk i drew with a knife three years ago
in the butter yellow room of my older sister's house
when we were homeless
to the childhood summer i spent as a lake baby
in my grandmother's car

i finger the scores of cuts on my arms
my thighs
old, most of them
some too deep to fade
each scar has a face
most of them are
mommy's

i like to remember her from old photographs
sun-bleached hair down to her unblemished thighs
the most inexplicable shine in her face

i think of how different those photographs would be
if she knew then that her daughter hurt her body
every time she thought of her mother

i think the smile would be different

but i look at her now
grayed,
aging...
still smiling.
as if she didn't know
that she made me a tiger
gave me these stripes
as if she didn't know
that it is her fault i am a killer

i look at the burn peeling on my arm
and for once this self harm isn't pretty to me
it is very, very ugly
a big, blistering red mark
marring my freckles
i wonder when it will fade
or if it will at all
i wish i could burn more than
just this arm
of mine.

if you'd chosen to wake up the
sun might shine or you
might curl up, ball of flesh, and
watch tree leaves sway,
break,
fall in steady inconsistencies,
like you fall
all eyelids, at least
all fluttering, beating moments
displacing air to thousandth degrees,
pretending not to care or
to have wished to have been
able to,
you
smile, it is empty,
like the sounds of a shoreline,
or the dripping tap
in a laundry or
miscellaneous room.

you sit down
and cry,
quiet as the tap.
it is heard for miles.
down and down and down and
out.

why is it that every time a boy passes me in the hall
i feel guilty
like i owe something i haven't paid
like i ought to have something but i haven't taken the time to get up and get it -
embarrassed.

boy,
why does the back of your neck frighten me
why does the suggestion of your frame
make me wish i was not existing
what is it about you that is so
*******
scary

i am a goddess
a wisdom
a prose
and yet i cannot look normalcy in the face
you are nothing special
but you are enough to untie my laces