It is the Muses
who have caused me
to be honred: they
taught me their craft

He is more than a hero
he is a god in my eyes--
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you -- he

who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing

laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I can'

speak -- my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn't far from me

SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed --
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

The wrinkles on her brow are essay lines she has worked years to write. The twitch that turns the corners of her mouth up when she's winning comes from her father, says her mother. Her father's daughter is not a title she wears proudly. Refuses his name, runs from it like the plague. She feels like a refugee in her own home. Her home is war torn and divided. And the only way out is a piece of paper that determines the rest of her life. Her head and her heart have always been two deciding factors but she has always chosen to ignore the heart. In a body ruled by logic, emotions have no place, no room to speak. Wrapped up in old library books and hours of sleepless nights, her mind is weary of the journey ahead. It is tired of working and wants to rest but she won't stop until the paper is in her hand. Ink stains her calloused fingertips and her tongue is drenched in coffee and aspirins. When she looks the mirror she is nothing more than a machine. She sees the gears behind her eyes; cranking and spinning. Her actions are calculated quick figured out by the ticks and wurs in her head.
//Click click click//
She stops. A voice calls her name from beyond her window, small rocks tap the glass. Her breathing slowing, and her cheeks redder than before. The gears shift, begin to rust and fall away as her heart rate increases. When he finds his way up to her bedroom, she'll say
"You are more of a mechanic than you thought."
"I am more human than I ever believed I was."

Her body is made from recycled materials; her mother's eyes and father's nose. Her voice is filled with church hymns and sharp sarcasm. The lacey white dress she wears to church is only for the daytime, and it fades with the night. She carries her masks like her LSD in her bible. She is a tightrope dancer, a balancing act under the big top of her community. If she falls, the crowd will attack; swarm in with violent screams and brand her body sinful. She has always been to much to handle. Her presence is strong, known. She has the holy fire in her belly and yet smoke is anything but of a higher power. She has always known the higher power, more so than anyone. But as of late she as felt more distance between her humble place on Earth and the high heavens above and she is desperate to fill the gap. Poppin' pills from kids she doesn't know the name of and drinkin' cheap liquor that makes her remember there is a devil. And she dances with him every night. As of late, she has found a home in his fire and brimstone. It is warmer than the chilling stares of judgment she feels in between the pews. Everyday is judgment day. The haze consumes her and she can't tell where its coming from rather she doesn't care because it fills the gap. She is so high, she whispers to him,
"I can see God."
" I see him and he is something sinful."