My anger was righteous,
Deserved and harsh.
It poured your ichor
Onto paper.
Mingled words on
A hundred pages.
Only to set it ablaze
With blue flames
That took years
To do their job.
Now the coals smolder
In destruction
And wait,
Patiently

People retreat
further and further
into religions,
politics,
consumerism,
or chemicals
to avoid
confronting
painful truths.

waiting
              for
                   the day
                               that you
                                              will
                                                     write me
                                                                      a few
                                                                                kind
                                                                                         words
                                                                                                    ........................

Innocent girl
You have no hate in your heart
You only see the best
In people

Innocent girl
Precious in all that you are
You deserve the wholesome things
So little

You have to understand
How the world is imperfect
And no boy or any man
Should make you feel less worth it

Pretty little girl
Let no one challenge your art
It’s unique in every purpose,
It’s fragile

Pretty little girl
Talented, careful, and smart
Keep that steadfast, selfless love,
It’s valuable

“Why does she write poetry?”
“She must be in love...”
“I wonder who she’s writing about.”

My words are more
than mindless infatuation,
though they lend themselves
to this tendency.
For instance, I wrote this
in less that 5 minutes,
because “love” isn’t the only
motivation to my poetry.
Don’t underestimate
the intention of my inspiration.

a lot can happen in a year, maybe four;
a lot can happen in an hour, maybe more.

talking is fine, but can you take on the risk?
now, i’m not just talking about an ordinary task.
whether it be a lifetime of love, the love of your life,
or one particularly special night,
it all comes down to this:
a right
of passage, a race.

who’s better?

he’s taller, but he has the nice hair;
she’s blonder, while she tries not to care.
he can’t dance, and he won’t try;
she won’t admit to the tear in her eye.
he knows what he wants, and he knows nothing;
she tries to distinguish a little bit of everything.

stop it.

there’s no winning the race yet because his shoe is untied;
she can’t stand and go face that finish line.
he tripped and fell, but so did she;
the other guy ran, only to fall to his knees.
stop panting and collect yourself- just breathe.

a lifetime led to four years, and four years to that day;
she ran and chased too many check points along the way.
afraid of being alone, she asked too many times;
afraid of dancing alone, she asked, but was still denied.
him, him, him, him, he who was possibly that sacred hymn:
one he wondered impatiently,
another he pursued contradictingly,
another he fell flawlessly;
however, no he was to be lawfully,
but only so rightfully.

this is no lifetime, but only
one evening not meant to be lonely.
the only way to win is to face them directly in the eye
and have every question answered. why?
because this is that special night,
senior year, and you have the right.

step back, step up, have courage, calm down.
ASK her to a quaint place in town,
but before she even knows you’re listening,
just as both your hearts are quickening,
surprise HER with that special something.
if she knows, you may think you blew it,
when really, this whole time, she probably knew it.
it won’t be easy, but if it comes from the heart,
there’s the finish line. all you’ve got TO do is start…

ya know, sometimes Poems Reveal Oblivious Messages...

It felt
Routine
The way you kissed me.
Happy Anniversary.
A spell
Chlorine
Kept pure when I'm filthy.
Celebrated monthly.
Fare well
Pristine
A dose of euphoric fancy.
Sinless fantasy.
The belt
Fastening
A drive's home, song's playing.
Dazed wondering.
I fell
Preying
Eyes danced like a gypsy.
Lost remembering.