Head up, stay strong, fake a smile, move on,
they always said,
No one will see a broken spirit.

They were wrong.

Your eyes saw past it all.

The way your eyes loved my soul
wasn't in vain or vanity.
They didn't see the complex masks
or the pounds of makeup --
Your eyes saw me in all my simplicity.
You dove into the darkness of my eyes
and found this small broken light --
some strange thing you called a *soul.
Your eyes loved that shattered light --
they held it with kind words and soothing embraces.

I felt like The Golden Girl turned inside out:
a face comprised of dullness and imperfection,
a soul of great beauty and grace.
With words, smiles, and touch,
you convinced me to stay in my skin,
but for once in my insipid life,
my soul felt alive and bright.
No longer would I battle the darkness,
no longer would I be afraid of the monsters inside.
Your eyes struck the match that ignited my soul again.

I don't want to think about
What will happen to us.
I don't want to think about
     Next year,
          Next month or
               Next week.
I just want to think about
                    Tomorrow.

I don't know
What I'm wearing tomorrow,
What I'll eat for breakfast,
Or if I'll even wake up tomorrow.
What I do know is that
                    Tomorrow,
I'll still love you.

I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have  never  seen.

This  pink  rose  is  something  trying  too ­ hard to be red.
Slashing and  ripping  at clothes  with  sharpened  words,
claiming it’s  merely  the  thorns  of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon  me:  I can  not  handle  the  sickly sweet
succor stuck under my  suffocating  nose. He holds  me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip  
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees  red  where there is none

--  o r   p e r h a p s   t h a t ’ s   j u s t   t h e   b l o o d  ?  --

this pink rose has me trembling,  fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s   stronger   than   me,   but   the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such  a  small
world, such  a  small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.

I can’t walk these  halls
with  comfort  or  safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my    back    and    face.

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.

There is something romantic
about
           light
                     snowfall
                                      on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
                    from
                            falling
                      flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
                  yellow     dresses
                         powered
                              in
                        sparking
                       diamonds,
           swaying
      slowly to
            Father's
      lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
                          pours
                                    pink
                                            light
onto the dreary eyed school children

Yes, there is something romantic
about a
             light
                     snowfall
                                   on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
                the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
             melt
                             away.
Seeing the sun
                 beating
                    heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
                                                        ­                 is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.

When you reach the house that has become a home,
     take a right;
walk down the street that is a community,
    take a left;
then travel to the shops that are lives,
    take a left;
see the corner that has become a job,
     continue
to find the alley that is a veteran's bed,
     take a right;
walk past the single mother begging for food,
     turn around;
sleep soundly in your warm bed.

The line for the local convenience store
Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb,
Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor
And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”

We make like big balloons who self-implode:
Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns,
Fighting for survival makes mores erode
When a dark illusion has fooled billions.

Little John waits in line with his mommy,
No more than a decade, he learns to shoot.
Life was quiet like a dark raging sea,
Now we shake from a screen and men in suits

Fear not, trembling people of the world,
There is a way to end the gun violence,
To stop making canyons of the knurled:
Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!

Automatics in the professor’s desk,
Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs,
End common fear with something more grotesque:
Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.

The clouds above us weep
at the sight of your departing footprints,
but don't fear, love, for
from these relentless tears,
beautiful flowers shall sprout
and the heavy goodbyes
that engraved your lonely footprints
will be replaced with
welcoming embraces
and the light laughter
of a new beginning.

Don't tell me he's a bad boy,
Because I already know.
Don't tell me he'll hurt me,
Because I already know.
But how could you,
You of all people,
Know how this feels?
To know he's a tool,
But loving when he smiles at you;
To hear him ask about how you are
And knowing you're not his only one;
To ache for him to whisper your name
With the idea he'll break your heart?
I know these things
As clearly as I know the sun raise,
But all notion and reason escape
When he meets my eyes…

Hourglass cage holding me like a love,
Hold me closer, tell me of forever.
Sing to me of time, not my lack thereof,
Just lie to me with soft lips so clever.
The sands sub sole sink as the skies expand,
Stretching higher and higher as I shrink.
People are slipping through my open hands.
My tears are now sands that run when I blink --
They replenish but cannot save the past
Slipping away like my grip on the glass.
Each grain like a timer I can't outlast,
I place all my faith in falling morass.
     Grasping memories, hands, hourglass walls,
     I hang above the darkness like a doll...
          'til I simply fall.

It's time to fight for your freedom.

Do you see yourself,
Silhouette against the setting sun -
Reds as deep as the monster's eyes,
Draped in cold silver?
A breast plate hides the heart,
Shin guards perverse agility,
Chain-mail protects strength,
A helmet retains sanity,
A trusty steed will hurry the process,
This cloth to ease the pain of battle,
A torch to ensure you won't get lost;
A sword to vanquish the creature that controls your heart.

Silhouette, with arm raised high,
Begins to charge just as stars dot the sky.

You have all you need,
now fight
until the only thing left you have to give
is a single breath
in which the dying words
I love you
are carried far away to the next champion
to fall at this beast's hands.

Poetry is the art,
Of word selection.
It is the beautiful combination
Of syllables, rhymes, colors, and images.
A place where a description
Consists of few words.

In that sense,
I hope that one day,
The art of poetry that will depict me will be
Indescribable.
I wish for one day, to not be called
Beautiful
Pretty
Adorable or
Kind.
But, instead, I want to be
Indescribable.
"No one adjective can describe you, so you're
Indescribable.
You're everything: from beauty to fierce, and yet,
That doesn't seem enough. You are, love,
Indescribable."

I saw fireworks

Tiny explosions of reds
yellows and purples colliding --
Fourth of July through a kaleidoscope

So much happening
yet my mind sits in a daze
Your lips, your taste, is everything.

My body is numb
The heart dictating all
until its beat rings clear

I saw fireworks

He asked me how I liked it today--
from the back or front?
He wanted to know why--
too small or didn't last?
He said he knew, so I shouldn't lie to him--
as if I was less than him.
What's a ****** to do
when the rumors peg her as a ****?
She can't ignore the whispers,
or the blatant accusations:
Now we all know how ***** she really is.
It's been twenty-four hours,
and already the **** is coming
with dogs, chained, in their heels,
makeup streaked and lipstick smudged.
He releases the *******.
But they don't wait for the cover of night to bite,
no, they lunge at noon in the crowded hallways
teeth of words, power of the sideways glance,
venom of whispers, bullets of pointed fingers
He needs a new name for the list,
his quota is short--
because when a girl becomes single,
she is an updated item on the auction:

Name: Lilith
experience: 1 guy(s)
skills:
     hands: 4/10
     tongue: 6/10
     on top: 3/10
     bottom: 7/10
volume: loud

Her reputation is spoiled--
the way her friends talk to her,
the invites she gets to hang out,
the fact that no one wants to talk to a ****.
Welcome, little ******,
to the Virtue Laments.

Yesterday is still fresh in my mind,
Like the bee sting I got on my behind.
This day was a day to make things right,
A day to show your might.
Yesterday was the greatest day in many ways,
But alas the days of yesterday are behind us.

Today is a new day,
It is a day of new decisions and actions in a way,
But today is a day for forgiving,
And a day of what the world will bring.
This day comes and goes but will never be forgotten
Like a ripe fruit that will never be rotten.

Tomorrow is a day of opportunities,
The day can also be 24 hours of lies.
Nobody knows just what can happen tomorrow.
It can be a day of sorrow,
Or a day of pure greatness.
It is always a mystery but can always be molded
In to what you want if you make great dicisions.

It's cold down here,
the white cushions and blankets do nothing
to safeguard my withering body
from Earth's cold claws.
Remember when we used to sit in Summer's sun?
Ankle deep in baked sand
as the waves lulled us.
Remember how you held my hand the first time?
Side by side, we sat on that empty beach
our hands absentmindedly digging towards the core.
It wasn't until I was distant that I felt your fingers,
timid at first,
then coiling like a grape vine 'round a fence.
You remember, don't you?
It hasn't been too long?
You told me,
in that raining back alley,
that you wouldn't let me go.
You told me,
as I held your hand like a lifeline,
that I was going to be okay.
I kept listening,
through the rain and your tears,
for the sound of running footsteps
and the clinking of money in my purse as he ran.
Did you catch him?
Will he never hurt anyone again?
Please tell me,
so that I may feel some warmth in eternity.

I can never do just in your eyes.
I'm never smart enough
I'm never pretty enough.
I'm never quick enough.
I'm never kind enough.
I'm never good enough.
I'm not dependent.
I'm too questioning.
I'm not your perfect child.
But that won't stop you.
It won't stop you from making me a mold
And forcing me inside.
It's too big of a mold
Like an oversized sweater
Or like trying to wear your fathers coat.
I'm an ant and your asking me to fill a mountain.
It's not enough to just love me as I am.
No.
I'm never enough.
I'll live and die with your great expectation
Hanging over my head
Out of reach.
All because I'm not good enough for you.

So bored.
So...
bored...
Doodle.
Except,
I can't doodle.
What to doodle?
How do people doodle?
How do they see images
on a blank piece of paper?
Well, it must be like how I hear
poems in ringing silence. Doodle.
So bored. So... bored... Doodle. Cat?
I can't draw cats. Dog? The best you'll
get is a stick figure. Horse? No way. Hearts?
Predictable. Doodle? So bored. So... bored... Doodle.

we see eachother in our reflections
but we're just looking at broken mirrors
thinking we're a perfect match.

we're two fools dancing around eachother like
we own the grandest castle
thinking that nothing can touch us.

we flash images at eachother like
broken television boxes
thinking we know eachother's story.

we burn holes in eachother like
cigarettes on old parchment
thinking that we're helping.

we sit and cry under the covers
like two children with broken toys
hoping we still love eathother.

we dream of eachother like
the living mourning over the dead
thinking that the other is gone.

we're connected to eachother like
two sewn pieces of cloth
thinking we're a million miles apart.

we want to forget eachother like
a bad dream
thinking we were nothing but evil.

we make eachother bleed like
fresh purple hearted war veterans
thinking that we can rip the thread of the past.

we're distant to each other like
two strangers on a crowded street
hoping the scars don't show.

Someone was wearing your cologne today
So many memories in one breath --
I exhale and find myself gasping for you again,
Breath after shallow breath until I am hollow with you.
It was light enough for the wind to carry it
but it made me feel like Atlas under the Earth.

It was nothing but empty hopes
wishes left ungranted.
As night falls,
and the darkness comes for me,
I find myself gasping for you

Clutching crumpled Tootsie Pop wrappers
And cradling torn Four Leaf Clovers.
Wishing you are far away
The more distance I can place between us,
The safer you are.

Wishing I was in your arms
Craving your lullaby, your steady heart beat,
For selfish reasons.
Take my Tootsie Pop wrappers and Four Leaf Clovers.

I am the very last person who deserves a wish.
Take them and know I never wanted to hurt you.
Wish for a thread and needle

Or a plane ticket to Neverland
Just please,

Don't wish for me.

No matter tree strong
Or branch withered and shakey
Leaves must fall alone

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."

There’s a third space
That’s not quite here
Yet not quite there.
It’s a dark place
With no clear light
Other than the fireflies
That hover close listening,
To our quiet whispers
To our quick mumbling
And to the declarations.
There’s a slight drizzle,
But I don’t mind,
Because your voice is
      My umbrella
      My blanket
      My everything.
Close my eyes, listening
To the muffled backg­round,
It makes me think
I’m there with you.
But not quite there –
In a third         space,
With you beside me.
I don’t hangup first
Because I want to
Listen for your guard
As it falls         away
Some where in         that

                 Third space.

In the seat with the split window,
black cold metal blocked the road ahead,
the sliver of window from the seat infront of me
clouded and beaded with cold rain.
I'm only aware of what's passing me now --
what I've already passed.
None of it feels real, though.
The trees and roadside ditches seem to jump
like an old film
like thousands of pictures flashing in sequence.
The rain streaks making the scene flow not quite right.
A few seats behind me painted nails trace an empty smile
on the condensation.
Thousamds of raindrops rolled behind
two blank eyes and one hollow smile.
Yet,
the image never beaded and melted away,
even as she started to cry.
I watched the wind pet small waves
onto window puddles,
and flinched as pothole vibrations cut it apart.
As we lerch forward --
perhaps for a red light --
the puddle would run to an unseen place,
a place I could not see yet.

Blackness tugs at the edge of my vision.
Everything is blurry and all I see is a man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
He scares me, with his yelling.
I look around, searching for something,
But finding nothing.
I blink and I’m in a meadow,
Blurry images of grass and trees.
Beautiful flowers nuzzle up against me,
Hugging me and filling me with warmth.
I see him again.
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I’m surprised to see him, and hear his yelling.
I look away from him, and ignore his voice,
And I feel pain in my ankle.
I look down to see snakes where
The flowers once grew.
I fell, away from the snakes and the man,
And into a room with you.
You hold me tight, and whisper things to me.
I look over your shoulder and see the man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I pull away from you, listening to his yelling,
And see you’ve changed.
A pronged tongue pokes from fanged teeth,
And your kind eyes are slit green daggers.
I turn and run
Away from you and to the yelling man.
He leads me to a meadow where
Flowers don’t bite.
I asked him his name, but he refused to answer,
Just reassuring me that I’d be safe with him.
I wake with a warm feeling, and a clear head.
I forgot his face, the story, the why
But I remember the warmth and the safety.

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?

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.

On the day you were born,
Two Candles were it.
They were two very different towers:
One just a lump of discolored, black, wax,
The other a solid Construction of white.

Now it's your first day of school,
Two Candles burn.
They are still very different towers:
One a hill of black wax,
The other a Mountain of white.

High school rolls along,
Two Candles blaze on.
They are shifting, changing shapes:
One is a small house of blacks and brown,
The other is a Mansion of white wax.

Your wedding day has arrived,
Two Candles shine.
They are nearly the same hight:
One is a dandelion of black,
The other is a Sunflower of white.

The day has come to light new candles:
Two Candles for a new life.
They are with no similarity:
A puddle of black,
A Waterfall of white.

You watch their candles change:
Two Candles for your child.
They alter:
Growing black
Shrinking white.

And as you watch theirs, you loose track of your own.
Two Candles dying.
A Tower of black,
A mound of white.

You're on your death bed.
Two Candles flicker
Black grows strong with a red flame,
white shrinks with a small blue fire.

They lower you into Earth.
One Candle rages on.
Black - strong and tall as ever.
white is no longer.

They place your Candle
With the billions of others.
You name engraved in silver.
That's what you will be known for: a tower of black wax.

I've lost myself in the woods ---
Again.
But, don't worry, I have a lantern.
The Light is weak, broken, and shaken
against the four walls of
Darkness that claws at me.

There's a voice on my left,
sweet as syrup and smooth as silk,
it says things I've longed to hear.
But, at the same time,
There's a voice on my right,
painful as a potent poison and raw as rigid razors,
it says things I don't want to hear.
But is it the angel that whispers
sweet nothings
or is it the devil?
Should I layer myself like a grain of sand in an oyster
or should I dive, head first, into the cold water?

One of the voices whispers of a path:
A nice one full of warmth and love.
I turn to look, but before I can see,
I'm pulled down this path, struggling to breath
and trying to break away from needy hands.
In the struggle, I've dropped the lantern.
But, that's okay.
It's warm here, I guess.
But, it's becoming too much.
Wait, what's that? My lantern.
Small rays of light fight against claws to find me.
It's harder than I thought, picking the lantern up again ---
and finally seeing again.
This isn't what I was told.
This isn't what I wanted.
There isn't love here, only lies.

And now, another voice whispers to me,
sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
My right shoulder is in pain, a horde of
screaming people, calling me to reality.
But, I've wanted this path for so long,
dreamed of this way before I even knew it.
How can I turn that away when it is teasing at my
fingertips?
Tell me.
Please, I want to know.
Are you the devil in disguise
Or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?

The lantern is gone now, dropped during the struggle.
I think I know where I'm going, but without light,
I'm ignorant.
I will trip in these woods, this I'm sure of.
I've been caught on branches, and cut by thorns.
I've run from wolves, and have been bitted by bears.
I want to find my way.
I want to find the light, in the ever changing world of dark.

Of all the lost souls I have come to know,
You are the bravest, strongest, most divine.
These misplaced foot steps set the world aglow,
With each touch of your hand, new stars align.
I assumed your wondering made you lost --
How foolish of me, but now I can see
You are more than stone: bright granite embossed
With love’s red roses, not sickly ivy.
Envy is my desire for your hands
And how they can shape such beautiful thoughts.
You are like a creation of Dream’s lands,
Lulled spirit tattooed with scattered inkblots.
     Wandering but not lost, found but still searching
     To bring color back to Earth’s eve of spring.

Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits
gathered together
and even though the threat of
torrential downpour looms over us,
the drizzle doesn't seem to matter.
We sing and dance,
chant poetry as if
it's a religious hymn.
This small voice in me --
withered and stripped down --
is no longer so.
With the voice of my army
we can crumble the mountains
that stand in our way,
part the oceans
that keep us apart.
Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits,
and we will not leave
without a fight.

I cherish you

like the feeling of cracking open
the window on the first day of spring
Feeling the warmth of the sun
breathing in the smell of flowers and grass
hearing the birds awaken from a slumber

I cherish you

like waking in the dead of night
to the sound of a summer storm
Listening to the soothing patter
watching the lightening eluminate
as you smell the damp macadam

I cherish you

like that moment of precipus
before plumetting into sleep
It's a calm filled with ambiance
and warm enveloping bedsheets
that emphasize the taste of mint on your teeth

I cherish you

like hearing a hearty laugh or
putting on a new pair of socks
because the little things
the things we tend to take for granted
was the way I loved you --

the way I cherish you.

Great blind men see all,
But you are no gifted prophet,
Your claims are hollowed out
Your visions are tenebrous and ignorant --
Stop acting like you know me,
Stealing days, months, years
Does not mean I am yours;
My wings are clipped, but I still fly
My voice is silent, but I still sing.
You avoid my eyes, yet
You do not own your wrongs,
These bruises that go unnoticed,
These scars that are invisible.
Stop ignoring me! I’m still here.
I’m still trying to heal what is hurt,
Bind wounds opened by your hands.
Blind man, with eyes that do not see me,
Thinks he has ascendancy over me.
Blind man, oh my dear Blind man,
I hope you fall in your chosen darkness.