I started leaving the door open for you.
I started to write and live honestly.
Endless nights spent chasing
another song of defeat
across the ashtray
forgetting my own words:

you can create art out of suffering;
you should never create suffering for art.

I started waiting for you.
I started to notice the decline of my moods
coincided with sublime precision to your
tail-lights in the distance.
Half-drunk
I had forgotten my own words:

suffering may be borne out of love;
love should not be borne out of suffering.

I started leaving the door open for you.
I started to expose each sleepless night
and commonplace hangover
as a symptom of a malady
and not a way of life.
You helped me to recall

peace arrives once the war has ended.
For peace, you do not have to fight.

On a distant summer
a girl walked four miles
to sell fruits at the haat
and mowed by the May heat
fell asleep on a patch of concrete.

The noon dusts played around her
sleep little girl rest your feet
the winds will play you a song
refresh you with dreams so sweet
the walk back home won't be long.

The sun had slid the shadows grown
when opened her dream dazed eyes
there she was at the haat all alone
her fruits in the basket had dried.

She had dreamed a round dime
clutched in her palm
colored gold with her wish

she had slept thru the time
and when the winds calmed
held nothing to buy home a fish.

Time has flown those dusts far away
years have grown her wise
yet when the winds blow lonely in May
her tears she cannot disguise.

A world with people having the same personality and style,
Where everybody is a copy of the other,
We all have the same smile,
And just want to compete with each other..

Competition can be motivational,
But sometimes a killer.
Competing with yourself is ideal because there is no other you,theres just you so the only one you can make better is your self by ensuring you are better than you were yesterday.

Be an individual,
You are like a colour in a piece of art..
Without you its incomplete.
Imagine the world as a piece of art,
Everyone offering a different kind of beauty,
Don't change yourself for anyone,you are you and you deserve to live as you!

I love the sounds of seagulls and I know why
It makes me think of special days gone by
Early morning walking thru the dunes
Listening to them ‘singing’ all their tunes

Racing the surf, jumping waves and building castles
With those gulls flying low with all their chatters
They glide by with eagle eyes and notice all
Just in case a wee morsel of food might fall

The countless hours we lay upon the beach
Listening to every little screech
They came and looked at us and then
Decided they were not into our Zen

And when the ocean winds begin to blow
And gusts of air move in with every flow
These creatures catch the air and soar along
And keep us all alerted with their song

And now I close my eyes and take a breath
And feel the sea air in my chest
I hear the rise and fall of seagull sounds
When they frolic in the air of coastal grounds

©By Jane Jan 16, 2011

Fear is a vine that beats down across my back, leaving uneven lines and parallel marks.
Is it always the prettiest flowers that become the most deadly? You’re poisonous to the touch.
All that calms me is all that fails to bring me happiness. Your jasmine scented perfume only reminds me of a love left unanswered; of a bird too scared to lift its wings and try out flight.
Maybe I would like the cold when I wake up, a thick shield of darkness to cover up and hide the person who I was never strong enough to be.
You’ll look me in the eyes when you tell me that it’s too hard to love me. Those oceans will be replaced with dull, empty ponds but you’ll mean every word, you’ll speak as if getting it off your chest will make the sun come back.

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.