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.

Close your heavy eyes and picture for me, if you please,
The way your hair catches in the warm summer breeze,
The rose tint of your cheeks as if they are petals to breathe,
Your soft skin kin with the snow caps of the evergreen trees.

Your good, tired eyes so gentle and lush and strong forest full,
See a world so harsh, yet gaze upon it so steady, fierce and tactful.
Great lioness, with white teeth so sharp, prowl the preys so pitiful --
They cower in corners of deep darkness, dreaming of your downfall.

Open your easy emerald eyes and look as me, if you might,
To understand this is what I see so this is what I write:
Your charisma, your grace, your gentle laugh like a kite in flight,
Your electric vim, your vivid aura, your strive to force things right.

You’ve fire in your fathomless green eyes that challenges our sun,
You’re a phoenix, soaring through the sky like a bullet from a gun
Screaming   C O M E   A T   M E   at the top of your lungs.
How lucky am I to call you a friend, you strong and beautiful woman?

Friendship* is defined as *being friendly,
But somehow the word becomes something more:
An overt assertion; warm, open arms.

Little more than two syllables,
It carries a weight mightier
Than anything found on this Earth.

Endless laughs, countless tears,
Gossip and roaming thoughts,
One word holds so much love.

As cruel time shrinks,
As distance strains,
We grow stronger.

Friendship is defined,
By our words, as
*I love you,
My dear
Friend

You are that fire in the midst of a raging winter,
the first and single daffodil at the brink of spring,
a summer storm that breaks the hovering heat,
the last green leaf to fall with the slumbering oak.

Hope and clarity, like the single candle that starts a vigil
Light and sensitive, as if heaven’s rays concocted your body
Strong and beautiful, a comet that inspires and ignites
Lovely and fearless, the red sunrise after the darkest night.

My dearest friend, you are louder than any hurricane,
Mightier than any wind yet soft as a young rose petal.
Your back against my own, together facing the tides
Of tsunamis that should’ve destroyed us, but here we are.

Time is a fickle thing, it falls like a rock and flies like a feather.
Distance is a cruel creature, pulling and bridging the strains.
But you are so valued, so precious in my memory --
Like a swollen chapter with pages lined in platinum,

It would be a sin to forsake such a person as yourself.
If ever a moment of dysphoria befalls you, take comfort
In the memory and ever beating heart of our friendship:
Call me up, *****, ain’t no way you’re escaping me.

You are the enrapturing, encapturing, sunset I wish I couldn't remember,
the warming, warning, spring rays I wish never freckled my shoulders,
the beaming, beating, summer heat I wish hadn't seeped red on my entirety.

You are the shunning, stunning, sunrise I wish I couldn't see,
the scarred, sacred, autumn sun I wish didn't make me stronger,
the blight, light, winter sun I wish stayed hidden behind grey clouds.

My dear, you are the most bewitching chapter of my life,
the tear-soaked pillows and the bar-coded mascara face:
another heartbreak ready for the card-catalog among masses.

No          words          on          Earth
                                                                ­are
                                                                ­          more
                                                                ­                    powerful
                                lips.                                                       than
                ­your                        I do                                              an
             on                                     not want                                    outstretched
        syll­ables                                          habited                                  hand.
      than                                                    declarati­ons                           Nothing
    more                                                      or                                          more
   are                                                ­           shrouded                               than
    words                                                     whispers,                               a
     those                                                    I       ­                                   breeze
     me                                                   want                                       in
        show                                        daring               ­                        the
           me,                                   proclamations              ­           everlasting
              tell                              and an                                   vastness
                  not                     outstretched hand.                   of
                       Do                                                         space,
                          once did.                                    words no
                                        longer ignite me as they

Stark, empty bullet shells scattered, by chance,
At her feet -- bedecking the ablazed brooks
Like young poppies glistening from the rain

Of the hellish hurricanes yet to come.
Man’s fear fans flames stronger than any wind --
Strength that ruins cities, yet keeps her sane

Like the arms of a mother now afflict’d --
Boiled black, bloodshot eyes. He is not her:
Take his hand, your pride has nothing to gain.

This darkness sated with dimly shining stars
Is not the end of your heavy heartbeat
Take his hand and see the red dawn again.

There's a pyre in my chest, silver and gold
tracing the mountains of jewels and silks,
overlooking the cliffs of lost dreams and
broken memories like a woe lost in hymn.
It constantly burns, but like throwing a
flag onto the flames, it changes intensity --
colors green and purple and blue.
  Sporadic, bursts and sparks
    that threaten to engulf the soul
      that stands too close. I'm absent in thought
        when another memory splices the embers;
          effulgent, phosphorescent, lustrous, scintillating
            with a radiance unparalleled and unchallenged.
              The burns of your skin on mine clutching
                at my throat with such a wraithlike intensity --
                  I gasp.
                    The skirts of my soul catching, ablaze and unforgiving.
                    cowering at the echo of your lips teasing a mere inch
                    from mine. It does not run, does not leap for the
                    chilled waters below, just simply lets the fire burn
                    the smell of your clothes into the air around me --
                    whimpering all the while.

Elongated fingers claw at my scarf
As I walk down this narrow and lonely road
Between the bakery and the local consignment shop.
Only the brave venture the snow storm,
Only the strong return home safely,
Only the wise find a way forward.
The lost ones, the ones who wonder narrow roads,
Call back to les femmes de la neige,
The tarnished creatures lingering on the road side,
Hidden in the far corners of alley ways;
Endless piles that soar heights, yet invisible to the eye.
They whisper of loneliness, of endless woe, a soft place to rest,
A bed to sleep away the sorrow.
They breathe your name, a puff of heat in a white tundra,
Because, you see, I could walk anywhere I like,
But I walk the lonely narrow road
To remember spring has come before;
One day it will come again.

Time is such a heavy concept, it falls like a rock but flies like a feather. The more you try to ignore it, the more it burns you; if you were to stare it in the eyes, you would likely go blind. What I'm trying to say is, I hate thinking that in less than 3 months, I won't have an excuse to see you everyday. That, in less than 90 days, they'll give me a piece a paper that is the key to the cage forbidding our distance. In less than 4,400 hours, I'll be packed and a couple hundred miles away. Of course, it'd only be 2,102,400 minutes until I dawn the cap and gown and am released into the world, but God only knows where you'll be and who you'll be with. So, in these last 7,776,000 seconds we have until they call our names and we walk the stage, I'm asking if it's worth it.

You are such a beautiful thing. Brighter than any star, stronger than any metal, softer than any heart... even though you try to convince me otherwise. Call me jealous and selfish, but the thought of you loving another makes my heart concave in a silent implosion. I think it's so very ironic that my heart decided to stop working not long after we said goodbye. It's like a small child that knows what it wants: your arms around me, your lips on mine, your smell on my clothes, your laughter in my ear, your beautiful brown eyes staring back into mine... and I wonder if it's been too long. And I wonder if 7,776,000 seconds is worth it.

I still have your tshirt.
I found it a few days after giving you back your stuff --
I'm not sure why I still have it, but it hasn't moved
Still on the bottom of my dresser drawer.
There've been 147 nights where I've wanted to crawl in it
And sleep like I used to, but I'm stronger than that, right?

Do you remember how I stole your tshirt?

We were hanging at your place when I got really sleepy
And you knew I absolutly cannot sleep in a bra.
You were a gentleman and left me to change
Into that baggy grey tshirt you offered me.
I crawled into your bed and began to drift off
While you finished messing around on your computer.
After a while you came to lay with me. I remember you
Kissed my forehead, or maybe my shoulder, probably both,
But we laid together and just forgot the world;
Completely entangled in each other in the most innocent of ways.

It's one of my favorite memories,
But I can understand if you need it back.
I've held on to it too long, clutched it too tight
Now that lifeline is cutting my palms,
Trying to find a way back to you.

Earth showed me her heart, and I feel obligated to brag.
The yellow beat of its core reached to me,
stretching over the miles as if it were a Sunday stroll.
Its brilliance enraptured me in pinks and oranges;
spilling her love like a drunk poet after heartbreak:
               beautiful yet tragic.
Framed in the white snow; pouring over the slumbering land,
singing to it as a Mother should to a restless child.
Paint strokes, long and smooth, parallel the canvas edge
like a signature move to Earth's greatest artists.
Earth showed me her heart, and I felt my own skip a beat.

Beat me down,
break my spirit,
all I need is one reason to cry in the shower;
to give myself completely to a
thousand lovely drops.
When I lay on my back and
let the water pour down on me relentlessly,
I realize I'm not sinking;
                                           I'm still here.
When I bow my head and
watch the water create a curtain of my hair,
I realize I'm still visible;
                                           I'm still here.
When I arch towards the ceiling and
let the water beat on my raw red chest,
I realize there's still a heart inside;
                                           I'm still here.
Yet my toes are still chilled, aching,
remembering how far I've come and
reminding how far I have to go.
Each stream that runs hastily
down the curves of my barren body
defines more than a physical adoration,
but a renewal:
I am not his,
or hers
or theirs;
the only thing that binds me is my mind.
Wash off the feel of his touch or
the scent of her perfume,
let it fall away like every other lovely drop
and see the world's beauty through your eyes again.

It was a cool morning in January
when I cracked my blinds
and peaked at the world I knew.
Bright breasted robin, perched in the azalea,
watched me dress and curse this life.
He did not sing, did not so much as move
as I dragged my feet and clutched my chest.
Bright breasted robin, soaring the skies,
always came back to make sure
each morning my lights turn back on.
He watched me tie myself to my bedpost,
hide away the razors, suffer through headaches
because I convinced myself I lost the aspirin…
It wasn't until a warm March morning
that I could open my blinds
and gaze upon the robin that sang me awake.
A nest, perhaps two feet from the glass,
perched on the limbs that clawed a child's dreams,
sat the bright breasted robin and three others:
A choir, A reminder, A hope.

"I hear you. I do. But of all the reasons you've expound of why we can't be together none are of the heart. I have to fight every instinct I have pulling me toward you. When I'm near you I am aware of every breath you take and when I am away even the wind in the trees reminds me of you."

Let.
Him.
Go.
I know you can!
Forget the tainted heart
Block the screaming head
Follow your gut.
You don't need him this time --
Or any time! --
To feel the warmth of happiness.
Let him go, you can do it.

I love rereading old notebooks,
Scanning forgotten phone notes,
And rummaging through filled diaries…
I like to see what I thought was important:
Dreams
         Love Notes
                   Cute Texts
                             Unfinished Poetry
They're almost like gravestones,
The way they define a moment
And hold dear to their date of creation.
Even the ones without a month or year,
I know: your name is in most of them…
Back when you used to randomly tell me you loved me;
All the poetry I wrote for you
But was too scared to ever tell you about it;
The nightmares where you weren't there
And the dreams where all there was in the darkness
Was the sound of your strong yet soft voice.
I love these notes and pages,
These tombstones of a happy time,
Too bad they're gone now--
Just like you.

Suffocated by a web of a world that does not understand:
Words in my throat, caught like little flies struggling against the weave,
Emotions suppressed deep, encased in the widow's cocoon --
I am silenced, hidden under the surface.

Like a star, hope trickles down soft as a weak creak stream.
Light but dull, a beacon in an entire world of darkness;
Little ones walking will be the ones to watch it grow strong,
But I, a little fly, will die waiting for a light that is not for me.

This web is a cold and lonely prison,
I pray that, in this blackness, I am not alone
As I wait for more hearts to light the spark
That might burn away this web of a cage.

Temptation is sweet, subtle,
Like the steady rhythm of beach waves --
Not there unless you're listening and
Watching for the sly and slick riptide.
The wait is agonizing, maddening,
Like walking along shell shattered sand --
Not willing to stop and reason
Knowing the anxiety is pulling people under.
The fall is sudden, quick,
Like the rush of a tidal wave --
Relentless in its destruction and
Scattering the power lusted as the serpent rises.

Snow fall,
Crystal showers
That encase me in the chill of death.
Take me in your arms
And lull me away,
Put me to sleep with the oaks,
Tuck me away under the drapes of the willows,
Lace my dreams with memories of summer flowers
Cover me in blankets of soft uncut grass and
Douse me with frozen snowflake kisses.
I fear the cracking I hear
When I try to open my eyes,
The shattering of an ice layer so thin yet so heavy--
Is that the sun I see?
Washing the white landscape in red and pink
Reaching out, but never touching.
It is always the moment before the dawn
That I forget the beauty of the day.
Consumed by twilight and midnight stars--
Hopes that are billions of miles away…
Upon awkening,
The first steps are always hard.
The chill that encases so many holds fast
Only the strong survive
I fear this time I will not rise with the sun,
But sink low, deep into the willow's roots
And feed from the next tortured soul
Who comes to sleep under the drapes of the willow.

Some times I find myself thinking
Would it be better if I woke up dead?
That, somehow, all those people
That were my friends
My blood
The ones who thought they knew me
And the people who heard of me,
If by my absence everything would be better.
Too many times I find myself thinking
*Yes.

I hate myself

I hate myself because
I'm not strong enough to say no
I kissed you knowing how I felt
I held you even when my head said not to
I let you think… I let myself think…

I am despicable
I hate people like me,
The world needs to be rid of
People like me.

The space between the sheets
that mastered your every contour
is hollow like the whistling breeze of a mountain high.
The pillow, the top of my thighs,
that cradled you while you dreamt
is stiff like a rose left cracked and shambled in baking sun.
The spot just above your ear
brimming with memories and 'mares
is cold from the barrel of a constant gun.
Your finger or mine on the trigger,
it does not matter to me,
either way waking with a bullet cozy inside
filling like the space between the sheets
and softening the brain like feathers in a freshly fluffed pillow:
A memory that haunts and delights,
a hug and a kiss
a scream and a tear,
one and the same
like the wrath of tidal waves and soft bubbles of sea foam.

I dreamt of being a snowflake while I slept a restless sleep.
It was quick -- painless
Like the death I always thought I'd be given.
I thought I fell from the heavens,
Touched by immortality and morality,
An open book -- open arms
Waiting for someone to save.
The prideful, hubris rotten, humans
Are the first to fall like bodies that could never quite get the parachute to open --
Frantic and regretful until... Splat.
I dreamt I was a snowflake,
But I do not deserve such a painless and gentle death:
Take my life, give it to another,
Surely there is any other more worthy than I --
I who have never reach for another,
I who cannot because pride demands me not to,
I who never learned it's okay to be weak
Until I found myself broken --
Like an oversized icicle, mocking and proud until gravity took it down.
I know it was just a dream when I saw myself a snowflake
Because I will not go gentle into the night.

They found me curled up in your old Tshirt
Old notes ripped and crumpled from a strong grip
And trembling from the withdraw

I thought I knew nothing of addiction
Until I tried 24 hours without --
Without craving you in some way.

The sound of your name is like
A sip of alcohol to an AA member

Your cologne is a shot of ******:
Exciting and gone before you know it

Your eyes are like a sniff of coke
Making my whole body shiver

Your touch is like sitting in a haze
Relaxing, familiar, amnesic…

I wish everything you did could go away,
So when I take a draw tonight,
The smoke won't have anything to cover.

I am not lips needing paint,
I am powerful words
       screams into a void
       whispers in the crowds
       echoes that find your ear.

I am not bones in a skin sack,
I am a temple
       created from love
       shaped by something greater
       meant for more than ***.

I am not just pretty eyelashes,
I am speaking in silence
       staring down evil
       unflinching towards darkness
       learning from mistakes.

I am not waiting for someone,
I am rescuing myself
       stitching my wounds
       smiling when it hurts
       leading a fallen army.

I am a warrior
       not a damsel

I am strong
       not weak

I am fighting
        not crying

I am changing
        not complaining

I am running
        not waiting

I am not an object
             a gender
             a ***
             a stereotype

I am human
        me

Actions speak louder than words,
tell me; should I believe you?
Mouth running, but arms are still...
Disregard the tears,
The actionless claims,
Unless you plan to show me.

They say I'm off my hinges,
That I'm spiraling into nothing
And welcoming insanity with open arms.
The voices sing me songs
About love and loss,
Of great battles
Fought at the birth of dawn
And others in back alley ways.
They whisper dark things
Along side the melody of light...
They tell me I'm off my hinges
But who's gonna believe a voice under the bed...?

{How many} glow-in-the-dark stars
do you still have on your ceiling?
{More} than you'd like to admit,
am I right?
I only have one left,
but it fills my {nights} like Sirius.
When clouds blanket the stars,
the glow-in-the-darks {must} shine
to keep the monsters away;
to ensure {I spend} my dreams
on hopes rather than fears.
The five pointed stars remind me
I am not {alone}; they are
{staring at} me with such love
that it keeps the monsters
under {my} bed.
I only have one star left,
but its glow makes my {ceiling}
the Milky Way.

My armies are in full retreat:
the cannons cold,
boots worn down,
muskets jammed and rusted --
Well fought and ready for rest.
My men seek shelter deep,
deep enough that hands cannot reach,
and they shall stay there for, perhaps, ever.
I was always told "no,"
that money ran the world
and a passion for words will not be enough,
that I will fail...
So my army is in retreat,
tired of fighting a constant defense,
using our last resources to build a keep
to lock away every imaginative flutter of golden butterflies,
and hide away any stray flicker of a thoughtful flame.
The oak trees of my mind's forest have been cut down,
nothing but stumps and leaves
and the smell of industrial smoke
from the bark of my oaks.
This time next year,
I hope not to be completely dead inside
that, somehow, deep in the keep of my soul,
a willow will weep beautiful tears
for lost soldiers and fallen oaks.
Perhaps the keep will thrive,
fighting off the countless sieges
and housing pilgrim dreams.
Perhaps the conquerers will be kind,
offering mercy to the innocent
and a quick death to the ones who deny "no."
It breaks my heart to call retreat,
but a small, crumbling, wounded dream
is better than no dream at all.

Did you know
My first love was the sound of the piano?
Its longing chords and soaring melody,
I tried to teach my fingers to dance,
But they could never do my ears justice.
Did you know
I love sappy poetry and lit candles?
The smell of standard vanilla
And the dim glow on flowery words,
But I could never recite them quite right.
Did you know
I love the way silence sings?
That two people can sit, quiet,
And not feel the urgency to speak,
But I could never stop fidgeting.
Did you know
I crave the feel of his strong arms?
The passion and softness behind lips,
And the innocence of a presence,
But I could never...

They told me to sleep,
I'd forget you by morning
Heart still beating strong.

Why can they not see
Every night my mind finds you,
Echoing last words?

There is no escape
From a dream ripping at scars
And holding me close.

Please, just one more time,
Cradle me close in my dreams
So I awaken strong.

Fear and lust are kin,
Controlling dreams, actions, thoughts…
You must live with it.

They tell me to sleep,
Dreaming will take me away,
But you are my dreams.

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied  
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!  
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;  
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,  
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;  
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.  
There are a hundred places where I fear  
To go,—so with his memory they brim.  
And entering with relief some quiet place  
Where never fell his foot or shone his face  
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”  
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Little boy praying at the shore,
do you not realize what you have done?
That flower, soft red petals and sharp thorns,
freshly picked and found home in your hands --
you tossed it into that achingly slow creek.
Little boy you must've known
that a flower like that would float away;
Yet here you kneel, tired eyes searching for it
and a hoarse voice calling out a name.
Little boy you could've stopped this.
Fingers were meant to hold things dear
yet it slipped, and you used them to point.
Feet were meant to bring people together
yet you watched, sitting, while it slowly washed away.
Little boy, what if I told you a secret?
That flower, with broken stem and burnt leaves,
held onto a passing rock and waited.
It waited for you to fight for it, but you didn't,
so that flower let go, drifting slowly away,
listening to the cries of a Little boy who could have.

What a dark time it's been,
no dreams to fill this void.
I don't need them when I'm with you.
You make me forget the lost hours,
the blank darkness, the cold silence.
I no longer wake because the sun rises,
but merely because I must see you.
          You may never know that
          your laugh makes me smile,
          your smile keeps me warm,
          your touch drives me crazy,
          your eyes hold me tight and
          your arms house me.
               You may never know;
               that's okay --
               I'm the quiet type.

I am no toymaker, I know this,
yet one day I found a small toy car
left on my doorstep with a simple note:
"Try and fix me."
I'm no toymaker, but I tried anyway.
I saw there was a wheel broken,
a door off its hinges, and an engine
that needed replacing. I am no toymaker,
but I tried my best to find these parts,
but I stopped before I switched them out
because I realized I was changing it.
I am no toymaker, but I know you shouldn't
change people; that only they can change themsleves,
and that's what I feared.
How am I to fix something, if it won't change?
I am no toymaker, so maybe I'm missing something,
but if I can not change out this broken wheel,
place new hinges on that door, or a new
engine to make it pur, how can I fix it?
I am no toymaker, I know this,
but I still battled rivers and mountains alone,
talked with Atlas to give up the Earth,
but Atlas wouldn't listen and I told myself
it was because I was trying to change him
like a little toy car I once tried to fix.
I am no toymaker, but don't say I didn't try.