2B or not 2B -- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to trust
The estranged memory of my parked car,
Or to take arms against the flight of stairs
And, by ascending, remember. 1A, one floor --
No steps -- and by 1A to say we end
The footache and the thousand natural shocks
That heel is heir to -- ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 1A, one floor --
One floor, perchance no callis. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in these shoes of death what callis may come,
When we have shuffled off these mortal streets,
The lot must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of memories.
For who would bear the sores of party shoes,
Th’ endless rows of resting vehicles,
The low ceilings and countless steps,
The insolence of the inebriated, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might end the fuddled search
With a local inn? Who would challenge the stairs,
To grunt and sweat under buzzed breath,
But that the dread of someone waiting at home,
The undiscovered disappointment from whose bourn
No party-er returns, shaming the conscience
And makes us rather storm the steps to 2B
Than face anger we wish we knew not of?
Thus a spouse’s fury does make heroes of us all,
And thus the reality of ten more steps
Is boiled in the evening’s song and merriment
With little regard whether the car is parked in 1A
Or perhaps upstairs in 2B. -- Harsh you now,
The ground that catches me. -- Cushion, concrete bed,
I think I shall rest here.

My tears are the purest ivory and the thickest acid: they are only shed when my heart stumbles.

Slow and paced, like the waves of a lulling beach;
helplessly at the whim of chance. Nothing but
anticipation to tell when the crest will come or
when the water will draw back, revealing the
soulless ocean's raw skin like the soft belly of
an exterior peony petal. The collision of water
and rock, a spray that deliciously cools my
forehead, the back of my neck, the space under
my arms... a single bead that runs from my
hairline to run effortlessly over my temple and
over the rolling hills of my cheek. It whispers to
me in the recesses of my head, pulsing with the
increased beating of my heart like a child's
first drum now pounded upon like a war call.
The crest comes as expected, rushing the silent
sand and coating my eyelids in salty kisses as
I lay awake in this bed so far from the sea.

Fear is often reasonless, compulsive - like survival.
No one can quite explain why they fear the dark,
Although we try desperately to blame the parents,
It remains to be simply “because.”

Often times a story accompanies the fear of spiders.
Or the realization that soaring heights are terrifying
Comes from a close call, a misplaced foot on the edge.
But “nothing” explains my fear.

I fear the sound of tires rolling to a stop on asphalt,
The crunch of loose gravel and the sound of a car door.
I find myself locking my doors when I am alone
And seeking something blunt when the moon rises.
But “nothing” explains my fear.

My trembling soul is ripped raw from screaming “no,”
But my lips are soft from the whisper of “okay.”
They always told me words are the most powerful,
And yet his attention was elsewhere when it tumbled out.
But “nothing” explains my fear.

It’s true, he never laid a hand on me without “okay,”
But he’s like nature’s wrath: “no” couldn’t stop him.
So now I grow my nails to claw, not to paint,
I wear sneakers so I can run, not at the gym.
But “nothing” explains my fear.

No tangible evidence except the tears of a heart,
The sweaty palms, the shaking, a dry mouth.
Why speak out if emotion is your only witness?
The jury will not be out long, to them it’s obvious
Because “nothing” explains my fear.

“Nothing” haunts dreams meant for escape and bliss,
“Nothing” reminds me of slow tires on asphalt,
“Nothing” is the echo of hands on my stripped bare body,
“Nothing” becomes the reason I fear an empty house…
But “nothing” explains my fear except “him.”

Have you heard what the babbling brook whispered to me one evening?
Did you listen to the whistling willow’s song brush the pond?
Perhaps you have not seen what jewel crusts the setting sun’s crown?
It does not surprise me that the Earth rejoices in your name:
You are the embodiment of everything good in this world.

I walked in the never still forest and heard you in the dance --
The sporadic and simplistic pat of small animal feet.
I listened and found you asleep among the white pond lilies
And painting the golden crust of the sun’s blood red diadem,
Yet, the brook did not utter a simple shadow shape of you.

Following the now silent stream through the forest dark and deep,
Crawling through the pointing, shredding claws and heavy, lonely eyes,
I found you swaddled in the arms of the cursed crying willow
Shaking in fear and anger, sharing tears more precious than pearls --
Take my hand as the sun rises only when we expect it.

You are the green weeping willow life-bound by endless sorrow,
But definition is a cage that should not bind such beauty:
You are both the warm summer breeze and the winter frost topped trees,
The soaring mother eagle and the light notes of a spring song --
You are the babbling brook that speaks only of hope and the dawn.