Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.

What would happen if, instead,
we digested
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and backs
and legs
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?

Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
and fondness
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
would it?

Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.

I remember,
pedaling faster than my heartbeat could carry me,
wheels spinning on the axis,
flying up and down hills,
Tangled hair whipped, beaming 'til my eyes closed shut

...

and I was free.
Speeding through my imagination,
through grassy parks,
over and under galaxies,
teleporting from planet to planet,
jumping from street to street

...

Fears smeared behind me like blurry water colors,
my soul lifted my cheeks up into a smile,
as the wind pushed my worries away.

One knows it is a chaotic world in which we live,
when we say we are blessed
to have basic human rights


(i.e. water, shelter, clean clothes, education, medicine, freedom from prejudice, love, etc)

Marching off into the night
with blankets wrapped around backs,
we are huddled close for love,
for warmth.

Sprawling out on the ground,
we all turn our gaze up, up and away.
Giggles slowly die out
as Your immensity unfolds,
as twinkling stars fill our eyes
and cold night air drips into our lungs...
making it's way to our souls.

Wake up.

Conversations flow from stars to planets,
to galaxies beyond galaxies beyond galaxies,
and suddenly I am so small.

...and You are so big,
and I am terrified,
and overwhelmed,
and comforted.

They look at me
through their worn down features.
They've got lines
all over their faces
each a mark of frequented emotion.

Their suits are cut to perfection,
or else they haven't showered in months.
It doesn't make a difference,
this type of man...
are all the same in their bones.

They want my freshness,
the smooth touch of my skin,
the soft curls and curves
that haven't yet been worn rough by age.

They want the twist of my smile
my brightness, my beauty.
They see
untamed, unharnessed, naiveté  
sparkling in my eyes,
and they want it.

They want me to make them happy,
and through our word play
I can see it in their eyes.
The longing, the lust, the belittlement.

The twist of my  smile slowly drops down,
The sparkle in my eye sizzles out.
But my brightness?
It burns hot.

I am not naive, I know that you want me.
I am not yours for the taking.
My brightness burns hot,
and I will scorch you to your bones.

(Parents, raise your sons right)

It feels good
to have my heart broken again
(well that's an exaggeration)
my heart has never been broken--
maybe bumped or bruised--
but never broken.

It feels good
to have a bruised heart.
It reminds me that I'm still here,
my heart is still in there,
and I am a human.

It feels good
to have a hurting heart.
It forces you to ask why,
to grow and learn,
to become better,
stronger,
to learn to be worthy of love.
So that someday, maybe,
you'll be able to hold someone else's
bumped, bruised, beating heart.

It feels good
to have a heart,
and know that even when it hurts,
I am innately
(whether I like it or not)
a loving, caring, being.

I'm not the fan of birthdays.
With them comes wrapping paper,
confetti, and cake...
and reminders of daunting ideas pushed aside.

Reminders of all the things I have yet to do,
and the terrifying idea that I am not immortal.
I will not last forever, here.

I am sculpting myself into a person,
of which I am only partially fond.
And with each passing hour, day and year,
I am reminded of the quickly hardening clay
of this sculpture that is me.

My hands rush to pick up the pace,
as I solidify  before my eyes.
My work becomes sloppy,
my hands become ragged,
my movements--
previously so natural and unconscious--
become frantic and desperate
as I become increasingly aware of my potential
slowly falling away,
with each missed moment.,
each birthday candle,
each tick of a clock.

So here I am on the floor.
Looking up at my  sculpture.
Face, hands, hair covered in drying clay.
I am left not with the question can I do it,
no,
simply will I do it?

Will I allow myself to be that change,
to make my mark,
to empower, create, and grow.
Will I let myself me powerful beyond measure?

So,
happiest birthday to this little soul,
so small and fragile.
With so much to give,
and so much to take.
And with only so many breaths left,
to get it all done.

sun's rays kissing
drooping eyelids
creating islands of softness
in thoughts.
curls smelling like honeyed coffee,
freckles dancing
to the warmth.

reality
is the trickiest of things,
of which we will always be confused,
and contemplating,
and afraid of.
wanting to master,
to be content with,
to control.

but here,
minds are quieted
by sun's rays,
drooping eyelids,
and honeyed coffee.

whatever the truth may be,
lashes love the rays,
lips love the taste.
here on a soft island,
dipping toes into
reality's pool,
is just about right.

We all have our moments,
here's a recipe I've been compiling
to help me grow, and heal, and learn:

softly whispered prayers
daydreams in the grass
naps in the sunshine
a hug from your best friend
squeezing poetry out of your wounds
driving, windows down
lifting heavier, running faster
warm plate of food
seeing the end in the beginning
long mathematical formulas
raindrops
deep, resonating breaths

Because you hurt me,
like, a lot.
But I'd never admit it.
I'm the strong one remember?
Untouchable, unbreakable, irresistible.

But you are irresistible to me,
so much that it hurts.
You hurt, you make me hurt.

Or you would,  
if I'd let you.
Like salt and carmel on my lips,
sticky and stinging and sweet,
you are on the tip of my tongue,
but I will not swallow.
I will not breathe.
You will not get inside of me.

I will leave you to sting,
as I glue my lips closed
with your sweetness.

Because you are like me:
untouchable, unbreakable, irresistible--
and together we would touch.
and be touched,
and tingle,  
and be irresistible
and we would break.

You would shatter me into a million pieces
and I would blow you to smithereens.
And then what would become of our stinging sweet love?

you're a spoonful of stardust,
the twinkle in an eye,
you're the laugh lines on the face
of the old man you passed by.

you're the crash of the ocean,
the spray of it's salt,
you're the crunch of dried leaves,
apologies where there is fault.

you're the sting of the cold,
turning my cheeks bright pink,
and the smell of pine trees,
and a clever man's wink.

you're the best tasting coffee,
and the feeling off grass,
and the warmth of a hug,
and good times that pass.

you're the best and the worst,
you're the perfect contraption,
you're soul glows so bright,
you're a little piece of perfection.

so when life gets loud,
and your journey hits a *****,
just remember who you are,
and there is always always hope

Close your eyes, and open:
You see blurred colors, and hear a whispered prayer.
I know that voice. That voice is home.

Close your eyes, and open:
You are running through the grass, climbing up trees,
catching ice cream dribbles with your tongue.

Close your eyes, and open:
Standing with your feet in a warm lake,
hundreds of little catfish nibbling at your feet.

Close your eyes, and open:
Your mother is crying, walking back to the car where you sit,
wrapped in a blanket, in the middle of the night.

Close your eyes, and open:
First kiss. Prom. Graduation.
This is anticlimactic.

Close your eyes, and open:
You have jumped off a really high cliff into the ocean,
"That was a dumb decision," you think, right before you smack the water.

Close your eyes, and open:
A man is breaking down in the empty train station in Italy,
his girlfriend stands by him.

Close your eyes, and open:
Hopping from crumbling stone, to stone,
crawling through a bush, you are atop an old castle.

Close your eyes, and open:
You have just failed your math class for the second time.
When will you get it together?

Close your eyes, and open:
You look in the mirror and see an adult.
When did this happen?

Close your eyes, and open:
You wake up that morning crying,
because you know better than that.

Close your eyes, and open:
You remind yourself why you exist.
You wait, hope, and pray for it to sink it.

You are the last song note,
making everything make sense.

Prayers to
the rain pitter-pattering on our shoulders,
the brief constancy of our heartbeats,
the fog strolling down the hills,
the wind whisking our words into smallness,
the wide spaces in the sky,
the hawk  cutting the air with her wings,
the grass swaying in the wind, drooping under the weight of raindrops,
the breaths of ourselves and each other.

Prayers to
the feeling of imperfection, distraction
and mistakes;
and the feeling of wholeness, forgiveness
and renewal.

Prayers to You.

She comes like waves upon the shore
slowly at first,
then fast and heavy.
She whispers cruelly in my ear,
This is not a game.

She plays with my mind...
there one moment,
gone the next.

There is no rationalization
to be had here,
for she does not exist.
She is a figment,
such a powerful little figment,
of my imagination.

Your eyelashes
are dark and thick,
and when you're happy
they flutter like freakin' butterflies.

Which fly to my stomach,
and flutter around,  
and I can't think straight.
So I turn away,
each time-
without fail,
I turn away.

"Can I get a light?"
and a withered, ***** hand reaches out.
She leans in, inhales, and spark.
Here in this moment,
there is intimacy.

This a moment of trust,
as she leans toward a stranger
and a flame in his hand.
Their eyes never meet,
their flesh does not touch...
and yet here in this moment,
there is intimacy.

There is nothing quite like the sight,
of a beautiful girl,
bright eyes, smooth features--
leaning against a wall,
welcoming slow death into her lungs .

Her cheeks are flushed from the cold,
her chin tilts upward
as she bites the smoke,
savoring it's sweetness.

There is nothing quite like the sight
of the smoke dancing around her,
as she exhales that death into the world
slowly, gracefully through soft lips

Where did we get lost?
When did this moment of intimacy grow so deadly?
When our young get lost in the smoke,
blinking fast, stinging eyes, they cry themselves to sleep.
Unaware that the smoke that hurts so much,
is from their own hands.

I'm not big with romance.
But I get the feeling
that for some reason,
it's going to be harder than I thought it was,
getting over you.

Maybe it's because you thought that my independence,
my wild hair and ***** and sharp edges
were my most endearing qualities.

Maybe it's because your hands
are so big
that I've got no problem imagining them
holding my heart.

Maybe it's because the idea of you
comforts me
and brings me back down from the busyness
holding my mind.

...and even though it's obvious that you're still figuring yourself out,
and you have the hardest time trying to figure me out,
you've figured me out.
I'm not nearly as complicated as I'd like to think.

You've got this sturdiness about your soul,
that makes me want to lean into it and just be.
Like you could wrap your arms around me,
and, simply, that would be fine.

So, where are you?
Because the funny thing is,
we can't hold a conversation,
or maintain eye contact.
You're immature and rash,
and so am I.

All we ever do is argue,
vocal sparring, as it were,
never breaking the layer
into deeper conversation.

But I miss the way I'd catch you,
giving me this look
of confused admiration,
of bewilderment,
of exasperation,
of happiness.  

Do you miss the chance we had,
as much as I do?

there is dancing the the downpour,
and sadness in the sun.

there is calmness in the uproar,
and misery in all the fun.

there is black in all the white,
and grays between the colors

there is serenity in each fright,
and betrayal between two brothers.

for life is not two roads diverged,
or false dichotomies.
life will slap you in the face
and bring you to your knees

but life will help you rise again
before your drop back down
and life will bring you endless love,
and force your lips to frown.

life is full of the best of gifts,
and the worst surprises .
the secret is learning all the tricks,
and expecting it's demises.

for life can only cause such pain
to those who will allow.
for those few souls who play the game,
nirvana, you have found.

At night, the moon creeps over the horizon.
The world goes to sleep,
and my demons awake,
haunting me, taunting me, poking at me.

But, with the rising sun,
comes each cliché that we rely so much on:
the promise of a new day,
and the clear thoughts of a night's rest.
Suddenly, life is fresh again.
And you shake your head and smile
when thinking of your demons,
now so small and irrelevant in the sunlight.

The problem starts when,
the darkness of the night
starts oozing into the
light of the day.
The problem starts when,
the sun's sanity,
on which you relied so much,
suddenly seems so weak.

...

and then you're sinking
and the sun becomes blurry
and your world grows murky,
and you can't breath.

But there in the depths
stood a candle.
And while the darkness
becomes indistinguishable from itself,
the light fights on.
So soft, so sweet.
And the wax weeps down, down, down
giving it's warmth to the darkness.

And suddenly the world seems so bright.

Sometimes I ask,
What's the point?
Honestly.
What?

I tell myself:

emotions,
experiences,
exploration.

But those get worn down.
There are only so many shades of happy.

Waiting ,
wishing,
wanting.

Never content, almost content.
But never, not quite.

Seeking,
searching,
striving.

But every peak
is followed by another.

So why? Why am I here?
I want to want to be here.
I'm tired of waiting, wishing, wanting.
I just want to be.

so what
if my life has been strung together
on a string of Alex's songs

fingers picking rhythms into the air
vibrating me into the next chapter
melodies carrying me on
until I forget.

all the happiest memories
and heaviest hearts
lie there in those moments
on the string of Alex's songs

voice drifting to chords
and from chords
silently knocking down walls
until we are all one
in the same.

from fifteen they've carried me
like lullabies and battle cries,
on on on,
onto the next tightrope I walk

bare feet balancing on a thread,
as a I wander forward
on the string that strings together
my life in Alex's songs

Standing on a beach,
there are four of us.
A strange conglomeration of people,
from different aspects of my life.
How did we all end up here?

We stand apart,
all facing the ocean.
A wave begins to swell, to build,
but we don't move.
Can we move?

Here we brace ourselves to die,
in the giant wave that is churning upwards.
My heart beats fast,
"This is it," I tell myself.
Is this how I will die?

And then I'm running,
across the sand, and up the stairs.
I look back and my friends do not follow,
"Run!" I scream.
Why aren't they running?

I don't know if they ever ended up running,
or if they were crushed by the wave.
So many stairs.

Scream,
I can still hear your scream in my mind, because in this moment, you had lost it—utterly, and completely this was your rock bottom, one whose depths I may never understand.

Screams,
I still hear her screams every so often, echoing like war cries through our sunny suburban life. They are the battle scars she carries from protecting me from you, and you from yourself—they call it “posttraumatic stress,” but I call being a mother.

Silence,
I don’t scream because I can’t scream. I still can’t seem to figure out what exactly happened there. I was a little girl living half in a mystical, magical, make-believe world, where dreams and reality intermingle into a confusion of memories, or lack thereof.

Days go by now,
and you're not in them