give me love because lately I've been trying to tie a ribbon in my mouth. I forget too soon all the lessons i learned from leaving the south.

i bend over backwards and open my chest in a position to bring it to rest like Prima the Ballerina. My fingers ***** the empty air as if to pluck a rosy twang from a long bow I just imagined. my circumference dissipates to reveal my core, wake up not any more in  a beaten trailer, but a nest full of hope.

i'm wearing a black body suit and i finally have strength to stand on my toes. My point is I wish I had stood up for myself.

I can't forget looking down at the sad scene and I knew : I could never write again.

I lived in a place where the windows were nailed shut. You had to drink from a broken cup. Still. There's a place within that I refused to give up.



An angel above watched the figure of a girl stumble out from a tunnel into a staggering light, her feet ***** through the next 3 years of her life. The angel was forbidden to break a strict law of interference. The angel stood like an innocent bystander at a bar, babysitting her drink as the tall young brunette the one with beachy hair, she had sailor striped earrings,  staggered into womanhood. The angel hovered closely over her shoulder during the young lady's independent study of the greatest lesson in life's classroom: Acceptance. Finally. On the brink of the greatest love of all.

"Give me love!" She shouted from a rooftop and crossed that off her to-do list. Then she danced like there was no one who could judge her except the angel who sat there in Lovely Sally leggings in a wistful stare, her blood had turned into alcohol. She wondered who this person was, too full of music to be filled with sorrow, dancing in a **** hole and on rooftops. She knew as an angel, she shouldn't drink, but no one judged her. She knew a few monks that smoked.

This chick had drank more than enough, hollered on a rooftop, kissed a girl, and now was too tired to stand, she swayed like willow tree. The 20 year old traveled without stopping to a park & sat
in the same seat she did when she was 17 and made love for the first time.  Now the angel was seeing double.

The angel had this silly thought to take her to a rural town in Germany. Angels were allowed to visit any where and with any one. That's what she was doing now.


She watched her pick herself up and find herself home after a long wistful silence.  The angel glanced at the spot under the oak tree after she dissapeared from her eyes.   She left behind a checkerboard composition notebook bookmarked with a  pink mechanical pencil. It was her to-do list.

- learn ballet
- buy my cat the most toys on the block
- afford sophisticated clothes
- get new violin strings and bow
- drink more water
- love myself
-donate nice clothes to an unfortunate girl
-deforestation

The angel read all 47 items through her bloodshot eyes and decided she'd help fullfill it.

I was outside shoveling horse **** considering the more **** I piled up, the less you'd deal with when you came home.
2.  I woke up every night at 2, unfamiliar to having the bed all to myself, curled around a pillow like a buoy far from shore, sea sick in the choppy water, my vision reduced to abstract smudges. I focused on what must have been your silhouette as I gulped cups of salty water half a mile into the ocean, exhausted and drowning.
3. Medicinal marijuana alleviates  anxiety. I won't swear on depression, I believe, there are four types of depression. Blue dreams are most desirable, every day for 8 months.
4. You've probably seen this desktop orb that captures electrical currents, so when you touch it with your fingers violet bolts ignite against your glass fingerprint. With this light, 2 a.m. I scoop the sandman's hash into my pipe so i can get some rest from my past who caught up to me a few days ago.
5. Dreamer. Heartbreaker. Deep thinker. No harm has come -- to--- you.
6. When it gets dark again, run baby run. Spin around with my eyes on his, reveal the wreck behind my lids, at the thought of losing him, not to another woman, but to Fate. Hold him tight. Make love like you mean it, not to ****, but to tie two hearts together as they bleed. It's bloodstains on the white sheets, two people loved here like death sat by the dinner table, waiting on his appetizer.  
7. The cruel morning illuminates his naked body as he slept. I cried because I didn't know if dreamed of pleasing me. Why did I let things I couldn't control worry me?

You have to laugh a little at yourself when you've made so many attempts
to appear calm and strong, proficient and valuable.
Of course,
No one knows
about the self-help revolution's expansion on your bookshelf,
the super soul Sundays, the power poses, and happiness
exercises you commit to mentally.

You try so hard to hide your flaws and bad behavior.
It feels so revealing to go out with naked face.
You talk alot about Jesus being your savior,
there's a desire deep down to feel strentghened
and touched and feel loved like that
but for some reason you feel like a phony
thus underserving. Even though
when someone gives you a big tip in East Texas
you kinda ponder if
God is
looking out for you.

I woke up too early, when outside the sky a pearl hue and the curtains ghostly white, a dreamy mist hung over my covers, I did not want to be enslaved by the unforgiving hour of first light, but my eyes had peeked anyways, and I felt this deep burning desire to run before it consumed me.

2. It consumed me. My meager thoughts begged to perform, we couldn’t stop seeing beasts in the hunt, the moon curled up in the corner of the page, this tight feeling in my neck, my *** squeezed tight, and my stomach gurgles. I’m hungry and there’s no food and there’s no money. There’s leftover wood and paint.

3. Too ignore my hunger, I knelt down by my bed, at night where I imagine a pornstar playing with herself, so I could not fear the animal, or the ravenous beast. And I started to finish painting on the wood.

4. It’s been so long, I’m so afraid, please God, let me realize how beautiful I am and not destroy myself.

5.  I can’t imagine eating anything, there’s nothing I’d like except maybe chocolate ice cream and strawberry wafers. Only desserts could ease my protestation, while I’m still young, 23 spoonfuls of sugar for the seducing rush, and how could any one fathom submitting to its unbridled passion and understand why roses sob in pairs at the sight of plucking a rose petal by petal for vain love.

6. I paint this picture without knowing what it means, if it does mean something, could it be something, I paint this picture from my skinny life form to avoid slumber and exile hunger. I am nothing but a waitress in a swamp city.

She jumps over cracks, there's an echo she is following
"I can hear you!"
She's awakening, she calls out to love
"I can hear you,"
She picks up her dress and runs a little faster, she cuts her tender
bare feet on the sharp rocks, but she does not feel the pain.
Light pours out of her heart. Some people are intimidated by the light that's resonating underneath her skin and say she's too much,
and believe she'll get lost in her wondering.
There's an echo she is following.
The voice shouts back, "i can hear you!"

"My reality will never live up
to my fantasy"
- MS MR


It's a weird swirly feeling as you stand in the middle of the room as it starts, you feel exposed and with no dignity. It took you a long long time to realize you are nameless; what if the devil does play a part in this; you can't seem to find your way.

I'm pretty sure the devil DOES have a part in this. It's not PTSD, it's the DEVIL.

You are torn. Some happiness experts suggest finding strong role models. What they should tell you is that you must look hard at yourself and investigate: are you made up of particles just like Marilyn Monroe? Are you following your dreams? Where do your choices lead you?

Is something holding you back or do you feel like everything you do is a big mistake? (Maybe I'm the only one)
the room fills up with smoke, contemplating....
am i living a wonderful life or a beautiful lie?
Have you felt destroyed?
Is it hard to see yourself doing what you used to love so much.....

.
.
.
.
.

May you always have soft sunlight, a full moon, a bus that always comes on time. Flowers. May your kisses feel like falling, like stars blossoming into nebulas. Good hands. May you feel like you are infinity, like time is always on your side. You are divine. A mouth full of words that sound like "Yes," Eyes full of darling.  Skin soft like snow. May you always smell like honeysuckle, perfume as flowery as honest conversations. Laughter. A lazy afternoon spent staring at clouds. May you have love.  Love you can whisper to. Love you can scream about, write about, sing about. May you always love yourself most of all.
                ....theprettypoems....
.
.

My eyes move over the broad hills
and feeding cows with little interest
what flows through me
is a positive emotional experience
not easy to put in words but
if i could
perhaps it is
the space
to clear
your mind.

Or have you tucked yourself away in a ranch house,
wireless to the Network?
Are you craving
an existence far-fetched from reality?

The manners, the sobriety, my shoes
even my smile
is a prosperous presentation.

Do you believe
that there are individuals ******
to deserve the bottom?
Do you think that some of them
are the lucky ones
and that
maybe you
aren't?

And then you crack open a tiny conch-shell size of the universe
and give your worries up to God,
who is now your best friend with the bright idea
that you too have power beyond measure.

Deep in these moments of silent reveries memories are all that remain. It was snowing so hard the wind looked like italicized apologies on a break-up note. Luckily, the hot air is blasting, chipping your expensive no make-up make up. There at a stop sign on the street perhaps waiting for the bus, two girls laugh, they are hanging on to each other for support as they laugh, their laughter creating billows of steamy joy. I thought I'd crack under their warm and comfortable togetherness, instead I let go of the breaks and lurched forward. There was this faint tug persistent that back there was a life reminder: it's not those who have everything but who make the best of everything.

Before the wreck, dark purple circles under her eyes,
the hospital bed, recovery, the exile
we enjoyed ice cream on a cloudy day.

She said, before her jaw was smashed down her throat, the semi brake failure, her beloved camera in smithereens in the passenger seat,

“Let’s be happy.”

Carpet sand, it’s hard to dig a hole without a shovel,
seagulls land perfect, shell chips, skinny *****,
I’ll sit on the shore not really knowing any more where the horizon is.

“If only you knew how beautiful you were.”

After the wreck I could not recognize my friend, bringer of Delhi morsels, blunts, the secret
charm bracelet dangles in front of my eyes not mine *** lines
a jade elephant

“I didn't want to break your heart.”


A secret division, how did I perceive the truth, was it The Truth, Who’s IT when everyone comes out of hiding?

"It looks like you've seen a ghost."

**** motives. Evidence. It's the 21st century, every person hides behind a digital encryption, if I wrote this story would any body listen. **** photographers. Poets. Models. Artists bleed.

Does he love you?
Does he love you?
Does he love you?

After the wreck, it was only you in the room. Food for thought but your stomach howled and your heart puked.

Poetry is alchemy, choosing to put your spirit
and passion into all the words, and what's more
to see it explode, to see it corrode
like the stars you admire. They aren't standing lanterns
in the dark, they are bursting, unraveling
onto themselves...

Find those starseeds that possess those sunshine eyes
whose beauty runs deeper than their skin
that flows like a river, growing like nature
free as bird, find those creatures...

you can't say a word, but a prayer falls
off your hands into the soul of the world
and your hoping those gypsies catch sight
of your crimson hair....

hippies wear clothes they sewn themselves,
beads in their hair, and handmade stone jewels adorn their necks,
and sing by the fire
and play the drums
and tell you "Flower child, haven't we met before?"
They are
spiritual beings having a human experience.

the authors make themselves welcome in my bedroom to console my aching heart.
I'm down with the flu stuffed up with my feelings for you.
It's better out than in when you spit it out,
have you ever watched a 5 month old baby sleep, then something gets caught in their nose, that soft face turns pink and wrinkled like a pug, the baby holds a breath, about to cry,
that was me last night,
but then the baby's countenance is as peaceful as a cloud
and once you get it out that awkward feeling of release as the congestion subsides,
and I held onto the warm memory of you
to help me get to sleep.

It has been more than twelve hours and I think the spell of his kiss has began to wore off. It's hard to deny a man who is fantastically powerful, good-looking, and smart. He could see right through my innocence. I keep looking at my cell phone, he has sent me one text, and I haven't replied. At lunch, with my boyfriend, I kept staring out into nothingness. I was sexually unsatisfied and stressed over work and bothered by my lover's lack of ambition. There is a painful handsomeness to my lover, and I would never sacrifice the love we have. But there are other loves out there with fatal results. Last night, I laid down in the grass next to this guy and gazed at the distant stars. Not being able to advance made him more desirable. That kiss was full of lust, unbridled lust. I am being driven mad at the thought of how much excitement it brought me. The whole experience was intoxicating. And I am scared that a bird will tell my secrets, i think a glowing white raven was in fact the stars, and he will tell my boyfriend that I was unfaithful. Even though, deep down, I have always realized this. It was my boyfriend, in the very beginning of our courtship, who fell in love with another woman, with unearthly beauty. She was enchanting, her icy blue eyes metaphysical and her touches delicate. I have always been able to feel with my empath powers when my boyfriend was attracted to someone else. It makes me sad that we are loved and flawed. That we are two creatures trying to live in love forever, with our hopes and aspirations and our wistful secret fantasies. I close my eyes, and turn the raven black for being a spy. I take his feathers and make a head-dress out of them. I ponder what our next encounter will be like. I think his ability to move one will be most impressive, and i'll watch him go like a fire unleashed in the heart of darkness.

She stands across these past few months like staring down a calm ocean. Her thoughts are completely empty and she's wondering how did I ever make it out alive? Sinking to the bottom is my everything, my lingerie, and our photographs. Everything is a coldness she can't shake. Lightening crashes and her love was swallowed by the sea. It was too late to get out, and all she knew was this war for months, malnourished, lips cracked, eyes bloodshot as everything drowned. And then the silence. And the crystal clear mirror that was the ocean made her look very hard at how that ship sank. The bruises and the screams are stories too difficult to tell. She only tried to reach land by bearing through it, not really believing she'd actually make it, that she'd actually be here, that she'd actually be staring at the shipwrecked man. He lay like handsome prince charming in the sand, and for the tiniest moment, it was all not true. They still trusted each other and the sirens were leagues under the sea.

She can't deny herself any more.

She wants more than anything

to eat the heartshaped petals on the side

and swallow her liability. It's dangerous

grinding her secret garden between her teeth. Who could understand

that she covets a beautiful flower, but it's her fault she feels this way;

she compares herself to a sweet orange

when she is like a sour lemon. And then there's a dandelion.

She takes those too, to carry with her prayers

and roses. She dreams flowers will blossom

like goosebumps on her skin. She's anxious

to wear her hair down like grapevines. She feeds her

dreams to the ravens. We treat her with love

and write songs about her.

She felt it, something so beautiful growing in her stomach it ached.

.
.
.
at the end of a long work week, she could feel the universe
and it felt like
walking backwards.
she wanted to turn the key, sighing,
step into everything that is dark
and cuddle with her feline friend,
whom thousands of years ago
were worshiped idols.
And she lost herself in her own solitary soul
her cat purring, resting on her lap
like a imperial sphinx.
.
                    ...theprettypoems...

When the guitar strums chords that really strike a chord in you, suddenly you're on a search for the meaning of how the mechanics work.  Something inside moves your head to the rhythm. The lyrics are the story of your almost loves and the air begins to change.

In your heart
you know
how you feel.

  For a few minutes you belong to something large and your back is against a wall.  

memories
playing on your tv screen
squeeze
why does it mean so much to me


The moments  after  the soul summons
the essence of music but emits a noise  --
like something you'd hear falling down a well.

A deep croon, a wistful howl,
that's what you sound like --
a tremulous roar
your biggest fear is letting go

And all you really want to know
is do you have it in you?
Can you save your only life?
It's a weekend night and the fires bright.
what is the price we pay
Let's think back to our first year.

If the phoenix
wants to rise he'll have to

                                                 burn,
                                                there's no going back.

1.

i thought about seeing her in a private environment
like sitting in her room by herself on her knees
surrounded by her own messes
and scanning the internet for something to spend her time on.
do you ever picture yourself
on the outside looking in?
Does it make you feel like jumping up,
and immediately pick up a ***** coffee mug
and a bag of marshmellows to take to the kitchen.
Does it almost make you stand up
and change your clothes
like your best friend
(your only friend)
is coming over?
Does it sink in that sometimes you just don’t belong
and that friend never comes over
or messages you
or invites you out to eat.
Why do your friendships last as long as a boquet of peachy roses?
Suddenly you see yourself: walking over to the glass flower vase
for fresh water when you know it’s too late.

2.

he used to look at me like he was eager
to have a word or more.
he says, he says,
that this union is forever babe.
something makes me feel that
truth but loving is really hard
when we flirt with mythical creatures
and **** **** to numb the reality
that loving you is never enough.

3.
your breaking my heart, your breaking my heart
this is harder than anything i feared.
you listen to the playlist of your high school years
because something makes it hard to breathe.
folded knees, somebody please, save me from the mess I made.
it's the same old story, just different lines
and i'm tired of playing the same role.
isn't someone listening? I can hardly breathe on this black stage
am I supposed to pretend
that this isn't real?
That after this, we could just go home and be together?
You're falling apart, you're falling apart
every ounce of energy wants to cry out loud
but instead of tears, hot salty forums of unhappiness,
your turn the music up
to drown out the loneliness
and boredom.

She lives in oversized mugs, her signature is a coffee stain and ashes. She's overthinking about what her hippie friend said. I don't believe were supposed to end up with our first loves.

She made her second *** of coffee, poured a steamy cup, it flowed and filled within her a sense of secret certainty. She drank out of a healing cup.

This can't be how the movie ends. She tried to get these thoughts out of her head, but it was too early in the morning she'd been up all night thinking what if he knew, what if he saw what you did. She thought about all the mornings he made coffee and made it extra chocolately with a dash of cinamon.

She read somewhere that Hell was not made of fire, but with ice. She believed it, her knuckles bruised and the endless waiting.
Hell was sitting forever behind a computer screen for a connection, chained to her habits,
there was so many things she wished she could change.  she was worried people might see her the way she saw herself.

And she thought it'd be nice if there was a fire.
Something that burns you from the inside and shines brighter than a star.
A flame that attracts other people out of their own darkness.
Bonfire moments. She would go on a small quest and discover
the secret flame, the fire of the Colossus heart, and
bring it to a bonfire and rest.
In this frozen Hell of waiting for one person to say
hello over the internet highway,
and not condemn you, but genuinly
wish you were not just pixels and a video chat, but
something more human.
a dancing flame, a fire princess with firey hips,
she can't be seen through the wire, but you could feel
the heat.
She asked him how he had been, not realizing
his cold reply meant he had not moved on
and sometimes
he still
read their old
messages.

My face peels as if getting to the middle
 of a twisted plot, my spine is sore,
 I’m used too much, I’ve got finger stains
 from every one whose ever touched me.
Some of my inside is missing, how does one
 come to the ending of things
 if you have to keep skipping the important parts; 
It doesn’t matter really, you get the  gist of what I’m saying. I’m worn and lightweight
   as a paperback laid out on a summer day.
 You read my expressions plainly; your eyes
 skimming over the poor grammar, you say “
I want to write myself in your story
“ and  scribble your name on my arm.

.
.
.
The rain is falling faster
Every second
Like so many past metaphors.
.
.
           ...theprettypoems...

It felt like opening your mouth
to say something, don't, and then
biting ******* your lip.
You don't deserve this.
You tried to explain but he'd place a finger
on your mouth and say
"don't speak of these terrible things."
Don't speak.
There's an image of you two
hip-to-hip as merry as an afternoon tune,
of course you'll never forget
what romance looked liked
before the war.
put down your weapons
if you hadn't played with fire
Then you would not have burned.
They say Apollo, the sun God, is the truth
so you stood naked in the sun
and flew closer and closer until he begged you
to come back to him.
You couldn't find the heart to tell him
no matter how close you were.

First it was my throat. My lymph nodes were swollen. I knew it was a blocked throat chakra.
The words would not come out right,
The words would not come out at all.
It showed itself on your hands
And it’s the first time you ever felt Death pat you on the hands. Many things you wouldn’t understand.
Like why every night you would wake up at 3 am in a rapid temper. This isn’t a pen it’s your fist.
My hands kept turning purple, bruised. This is the first time that I’ve wrote it down, and it’s silent. Then it was my eyes
My eyelids swollen, and if this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what is. The mute is going blind.
there is a pounding headache, this isn’t a poem, this is just some angst confession about depression and how if I don’t write, I’ll die.

there was a fighting in me
that would not let me sleep) Hamlet
i stared into the heart of darkness
listening to the battle
of losing brave horses
and warriors.

I can't win.
I have let in the possibility of defeat
and now I see my heart
refuse to retreat, attacking
blindly for her soul.

And the enemy are usually you're friends;
Worlds you stepped into
out of curiosity to conquer
the unknown. it was an attempt
to trade new riches and learn
another language.

i always recommend
if you can't stop crying
to drink a cold glass
of water.

a new study reveals
44 genes that link to depression

imflammation leads to depression
water reduces inflammation in the body

and i also recommend to go
outside in the sun
your crown shakra warm
with gold light

grass boosts serotonin in the brain
the sun changes chemicals
the water changes chemicals

depression is a chemical imbalance
in the brain

and once you realize that
it will somewhat normalize
the dis-ease

it will make it seem
less like
it's all in your head.

it's real.
depression.

.
.
.
is it to late
to stop the sun
from setting
on its
last
goodbye
departure
.
.
                ...theprettypoems....

.
.

My eyes like a sharpened blade
I surrender.
.
.

            ....theprettypoems....

Here is my rendition of “somewhere over the rainbow” this is my “song about hope”
I see blue birds fly far from here but those left behind will have the strength to cope.
Those baby birds will fly, fly away from the burning smoke.  The dreams that we dreamed
Long ago before bedtime will lift us out of this dark tundra, where all we see or seem to see
Is what isn’t or will never be. How can we sing if the blackness clogs our throats? A little birdie
stuttered, as she stared wistfully at the sky, “that even if I don’t know how I still have got to try. “
Around us is madness, a civil desperation from our soul, that greed and *** can’t fill alone. My
friend jumps from the safe zone and falls like a stone, but before I could lose hope she was flying
on her own.
I feel ready all the time to be the change I need but I never found the courage to let my spirit free.
We are defined by what we create, but also what we refuse to destroy.  
The little birdie announces, then deploys.
You start to realize that the only one who can save you is yourself.
Love is equal to the wingspan.
– I see blue birds fly far from here, and those left behind will find
The strength to cope. those baby birds will fly, fly away from the burning smoke

.
.
.
The princess
doesn’t save herself
In this one.
Old friends travel far
to remind her of her kingdom.
.
.
            ...theprettypoems..,

take me down
to the city
where I come from
take me home

.
.
.
It was a mistake to play with fire. You feel the heat and keep a safe distance when you've been burned by love. Nobody said how hard it was going to be to open up again.
.
.
               ....theprettypoems....

it finally took you to take my arm
squeezing too tightly
with that question in your eyes
was it a beautiful lie?

it's all my fault
that we are so
fragile,
everything we had
broken

i remember i didn't know what i was thinking.

You are like Eve given a second chance,
but you turned around
and grew a bunch of
apple trees!
you cried.

You opened your arms to me
as if I'd been lost
so glad you found me again

softness. mushroom
stupor, hazy wine eyes.
she wants to get up to leave.
she stays to have another drink.
bright eyes. golden goblet.
she's not planning to stay sober.
fill the mouth with the ocean,
drink  until its almost empty.
.
.





it aches her heart to know how heroes are made.
she prays that she still has time
to trade places with him.
She'd rather take the pain herself.

She could feel energy in her finger tips. For a long time she just stared at her hands, spaced out. There was something inside her she had to write now.

A deep low meow from her left made her bolt upright. Her gray cat meowed at her a few more times, disappeared to the other room, and cried her long loud belch of a meow. Meow?

she felt shocked. Her and the cat were the same. They were both crying to be let outside. They were both wild.

Her messy crimson hair fell over her shoulder, put on a handmade dress, it was one-of-a kind, used some oatmeal on her winter face, and she went outside with her cat. She halfway imagined her cat taking her off to a cat universe. Or another place in time entirely.

.
.
A car hopper runs down the drive-through to say Hey
You forgot you had a
Heartbreak
With that drink.
.
.
                  ...theprettypoems...

she wanted to scream onto a page to make a poem, it's been so long that things will never be the same, she wants to paint herself into the embodiment of forever.
she wasn't the same woman but she was, with scars that told stories, with tattoos that moved, not everything had a meaning but it did, that was a long time ago and this is now.
who she was before makes no difference but it's everything in the world to her now, to take back who she was, to reclaim, to restore, to feel like a phoenix and rise again.
she would honor  herself, the goddess, the poetess, worship the word giver, give her sweets and fruits heavy in syrup to savor
and never starve her again.
plump full of love, sugar on the lips, being naked and feeling beautiful at last, on a bed of roses, on a bed of dried rose petals and skin like poetry.