My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.

What can one give to a star?
They have all
Royalty, light, and reverence
A star's warm glow and smiling light
Of greatness, it has no need,
But stars get lonely.
So many millions of miles of empty vacuum
So I think to this Star I'll give a smile,
A thank you, and the great love of friendship

I want to sit in darkness
And listen to the music of silence
Let the mind go numb
Eyes blind ,ears deaf, and mouth shut
No one with me, not even my shadow
Just I, me, and myself
Not giving a crap about anything.

I can't seem to write short poems.
I'd like to, and admire all the short, succinct
And meaningful poems
But I can't cut mine short enough.
Sure I could stop here
Or here
Or maybe after a couple other words
Like here
But I feel like all my thoughts aren't out,
So I continue
Pushing through the thought that
This is getting a bit long
Faerie, what are you doing? Stop
Its too long.
Alright, just one more thought
And I'll
End
It
Here.

as Women we are told that our
hunger cannot
exist
               unless it pleases men
that the expanses of our bellies
are shameful.
as if my stomach -- as full as the moon and as flat as the prairie
is not beautiful in its
ripe glory
as if my thighs-- made of thunder clouds
are not magnificent
as if my body-- striped with pink-white scars
is not worthy of worship

as Women we are told
that we should feel guilty for every bit of nourishment
that passes through our lips
but that we should be expected
to nourish the world.

but I say ****
diets
****
starving
and fasting
andbingingandpuringandworshiping
skeletal goddesses
that do not exist
(because even the most beautiful woman isn't lovely enough for a magazine)
and stop "going on a cleanse"
because we all know that cyanne and water and maple syrup tastes like ****
Instead
Praise Your Abundance.
run your hands over
dimpled
               soft
scared
            taught
rough
           smooth
full
       flat
bulging
skin & know
that
You Are Beautiful
&you;; bones do not define you.

And I can't fight it.
I know how I feel, but never would I say it.
I,
I can't.
But I care about him.
Truly,
Deeply,
Care.
And her?
She wants a hand to hold,
An arm for her shoulder,
And open arms for her embraces.
And he cares for her.
Truly,
Deeply,
Cares.

And so do I,
But differently.
She's his,
He's hers,
She's my best friend,
And I want him to be mine.

The classic story that ends in two friends agreeing to never fight over guys.
So we won't fight over guys,
*But how can I fight how I feel?

lips open like a
v                   s
    e           u  
          n
fly trap
with fox-face eyes
&
a smiles that
could paralyze
the toughest of men like flies
in a spider's w     e    b
Multi-armed and covered in
                                                  muscle
this goddess hides
her blood red
tongue behind flirtations and butterfly wing
eyelashes
her mating dance and hunting style are on in the
same
"you will fall in love with me, and i will destroy you"
she breathes out like the iron smoke from a dragon's throat as smooth as a lady in* silk*

the souls of a hundred boys form stars and constellations
in the night-sky blanket she wraps herself in
                                                                              when
nights get too
                        c
                         o
                          l
                          d and lonely
a hundred hearts rest in her throat
but she swallows them -- and laughs--
and holds my hand on swingsets

she is a goddess of a different sort--
belly swollen with the compliments and awe of a thousand potential lovers
they should make room for her in the heavens
somewhere between Cetus and Vulpecula
but there is no place for her there
because she has already eaten zeus