…
You can cut me up,
carve me into any shape you desire.
Cut me down, even,
Wrap lights and tinsel around my dying limbs
until I cease to amuse.
Then throw me out,
to the street with the rest of them:
the girls you grew bored of.
As we sit on the curb,
fishnet tights and short skirts,
we're no taller than a Bonsai.
We could be beautiful and strong
with love and care,
But instead we've grown harsh and gnarled
trying to sell it instead.
…

We may travel in packs
But we're only ever just
Distorted puzzle pieces
Searching for our place.
And it's hard.
It's hard to fit into a puzzle
That isn't yours.
But how are we supposed to know?
There aren't roll calls or attendance,
Just expectant looks or
Sideway glares
That let you know if you're welcome
Or if you're alone.

But what happens when
The image is supposed
To make sense
But one piece doesn't fit?
How can someone deal with
That pressure to fit?
They run around the board,
Squeezing into any open space
They might resemble.
Because they crave for
That drug-- that feeling of belonging.
They're driven insane,
Depressed and alone,
Trying to be someone they're not.
These people drown
When no one is looking,
Detached, cold,
Floating deeper into a dark mind
All because no one made the effort
To make them feel like
They could fit.

There's a lonely thing,
When a piece hears the click into place
But the flower on me
Isn't like the swirl on her
And the image is trash,
Disgusting, hideous.
And how can you tell
That piece,
That has felt the drug-- the feeling,
How can you tell them to leave?
Because sometimes we
Click into cliques
That aren't ours.
These people break,
When no one is looking,
Silent, unwanted,
Falling into an abyss of shun.
All because they were turned on
Giving no room for thought
That they could fit.

There's a difference,
Whether the pieces fit
Or the image makes sense.
There's a beautiful thing,
When all of the pieces fit,
But each one belongs to
A different puzzle.
Where each piece hears the
Satisfactory click into place.
That feeling-- where you know
You belong.
That feeling-- it's a drug that
Drives each of us insane,
Depressed, and alone.
And even though the
Flower on me doesn't go
With the swirl on her,
The lines match
And we all come together
To make something truly beautiful.
And no one thought it was possible,
Even I lost hope.
These people dance
When no one is looking,
Warm, content,
Spinning on light feet
All because they reached out,
And made them feel that
They fit.

And when you find your puzzle,
The feeling is unforgettable.
Maybe it's a good feeling,
Or a feeling so light,
That it can fly on the lightest breeze,
Covering your world in this feeling.
I wouldn't know.
I'm still dancing, drowning, and breaking.
I know my puzzle is out there,
And it's time that I stop waiting around,
And go look for them.

The words of a Goodbye weave together to bind this chapter,
the characters disappearing – just ghosts to walk beside me.
But I’m nothing but the wicked queen with a poisoned apple –
piercing the heart of a character so sweet and so kind.

Words intended for tea sit in my stomach like poison –
excuses that seemed pure now form a mask,
the Why wraps me tight and lies me in a cushioned room.

Actions meant to heal put me to sleep on nails –
the smallest of leaves is engraved with your name,
your essence echoes in the chaos of my mind.

Trying to replace you – Longing for another –
Doesn't heal that heart that fills the sink with blood so black.
Doesn't heal the silent limp.
Doesn't stop the smile that covers a screaming heart.
Doesn't stop the heart from ripping until only a beat remains –
a hollow beat that reverberates in a hollow chasm –
a beat that no longer sounds for me, but for the very person I killed.

I can see you through the treehouse window
as you stand before the river, fist clenched.
"What's in your hand, Brother?"
"Sister, it is something so heavy,
I fear it will drown if I open my clenched fist."

I can see you through my phone camera
as you slouch before the river, fist clenched.
"What's in your hand, Brother?"
"Sister, it is something so precious,
I fear it will fly away if I open my clenched fist."

I can see you through the nursery window
as you hunch before the river, fist clenched.
"What's in your hand, Brother?"
"Sister, it is something still important,
I fear it will be lost if I open my clenched fist."

I can see you from my porch
as you kneel before the river, fist clenched.
"What's in your hand, Brother?"
"Sister, it is something so forgotten,
I fear it will disappear if I open my clenched fist."

I can see you along the shore
as you die before the river, fist clenched.
"What's in your hand, Brother?"
"Sister, it is something I should have let go
so many years ago"

I saw you
as you opened your clenched fist before the river.
A single pebble fell to the riverbed.
"Brother, Death's claws did not **** you --
Cupid's arrow did."

Have you ever
carried the world
and not known it?
Went on with your
life, without care?
Collecting stones,
shining pebbles,
weighing pearls.

When you can't feel the mountains protruding from your back,
The
waves
crashing behind
your eyes,
storms
                 brewing
                                    in your ears;
the devil in your head,
and the angel in your heart.

When you don't know
they're there, you grow
envious of
other people's
treasures. They lug
heavy buckets
of stones, pebbles,
and pearls while
it seems you own
a small pouch that
is worth nothing.

So you spend your days at the river,
collecting stones,
                 shining pebbles,
                              weighing pearls.
With some, they can see
                                          the storm coming;
                                                         ­                                               hear the thunder
before the lightning strikes.
With me,
it was
a pebble,
a shiny pebble that
                                                            ­                                                       jumped
from its bucket,
flew up: past the angel, devil, oceans, and storms, landed on the mountains and crushed
me
under its weight.
The mountains shook and
crumbled from the weight,
the
waves
crashing and
churning –
overflowing.
The storms
                       made me
                                                              ­                 deaf
but I can still hear
the devil screaming
and feel the angel dying.

I have no choice
but to proceed
to lug heavy
buckets of stones,
and of pebbles,
and of pearls
while the other
people go on
without a care;
with a small pouch
that is worth so
much – that I’d die
to hold again.

If you don't want me to go,
don't push me away.
If you don't want me to stay,
don't pull me closer.
If you don't want to remember,
don't ask me to explain.
Tell me to leave
only after you've held me close.
Tell me you hate me
only after you've stolen a kiss.
Tell me you're sorry
only after you've left bruises.

Tell me you love me
and I'll stay.

My mother told me once
To love yourself before you
Love others, because one
Day you'll be all you've got.
Well, what am I supposed to
Do now that she's left me?
She walked away in a fit of
Disgust and shame. I am as
Hollow as the empty beer
Bottles that litter the side of
The highway. If I can not
Trust myself to simply love
Myself -- if I am not capable
Of keeping her…

how could I possibly love you?

Come my fellow hunters, follow me
as I am not likely to return.
Let us begin the journey to hunt him:
                                                      Beauty
Illusive -- have you ever seen such a beast?
Legends of
        Grace and Glamour
                Magnificence and Mesmerizing
yet no eyes have ever met his.
A shadow in the night, a ray in the morning,
dearest Apollo, is that you? Your songs lulls us,
but fairest Venus holds the leash.
He does not hide, this beast, as he stand tall
upon highway billboards and magazines.
Don’t think he’s gone, he’s just evolved,
photoshop to lure us, and then he
        pulls the trigger
                swallows the pills
                           slices the skin --
Beauty has become something lost in translation,
echoing in a past without
        makeup
                surgery
                           dieting.
Come my fellow hunters, follow me
as I am not likely to return.
We must strike him down with truths and
force his eyes on his ignorance.
When he lies, death cooing his sleep,
Leave me the bones
so that I might hang them for all to see.
A new symbol of freedom from chains
held by companies profiting from our pain.
Hunt with me so that one day we can say
                                The Beast is dead.

My brow curly angel
my Lillian
with eyes that shine like
the first star in twilight.
My blond sweetheart
my Liam
with eyes that burn like
a sunrise on a winter day

They sit, with unseen bond,
and watch as lights flicker
and reflect on their eyes.
“Go! Diego Go!” Liam bounces.
Lillian’s lavish lashes fall, lackadaisical
she holds her doll and recites
“Mommy made me mash my M&Ms;”

Liam can feel the bond, weakened,
and teases her, lovingly,
“The lily-licking frog licked Lillian!”
she squeals and holds her doll tight
Frightened, he drives his sister out.

I smile, and hold them both,
Lillian’s escape postponed.
Liam falls into me,
but my angel,
she slips away
smiling
laughing
and then it hits.

Water trickles down my cheeks,
salty with defeat,
as we dress in black.
I have failed, my angel,
and I have lost you,
Forever.

I long for your Love
your Warm giggle
your Bright eyes.
My hope for happiness
is Shattered as you
fall
out of reach
and out of sight.

Why hadn't I insisted?
Why didn't I keep you safe?
Now my sweetheart is
lost, connection broken,
he watches his sister
disappear under Earth.

I've lost myself in the woods ---
Again.
But, don't worry, I have a lantern.
The Light is weak, and scattered
against the four walls of
Darkness that claw at me.
Voices whisper 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 breathe
and trying to break away from needy hands.
In the struggle, I've dropped the lantern.
It's warm here,
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.
A voice whispers to me, sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
Another voice calls, 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’s teasing at my fingertips?
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.

Her puffed pink lips wrapped
around the **** of her freshly lit cigarette,
hollowing her cheeks and sinking her eyes
as if death breathed her in and exhaled her out
as the smoke billowed out her nose
like an early 1950’s ad for Camel.
Her blue eyes were never opened all they way,
the black lashes heavy from the piling layers of mascara
she never washed off and under-eyes caked
with a yellow-orange tint that sat deep
into her sinking wrinkles, but the way her painted lips
kissed that cigarette made my heart yearn for a faster beat.
In and out, death bathed in her every breath until
nothing but the brown paper, stamped with her lipstick,
remained. Her ******* opened,
the cigarette still coughing up smoke as the toe
of her battered converse pressed it against the earth.
She waits a moment, looking out into
the busy streets of the city, until the itching of her fingers
is too much and she leans into her bag to pull out another one.
Through her heavy lashes, peaking over the basin under her eyes,
between the strands of her golden bangs
shown two bloodshot ponds that swallowed me whole.
The voice that snaked from her lips enticed me,
it sounded shattered and homely, rough and soothing,
as she leaned in and whispered
“Got a light?"

Love:
passionate affection or desire
for another person

A figurative roller-coaster,
the very thought of it excites and terrifies.
People wait in lines
for what feels like years --
sometimes they chicken out --
other times they strap themselves in.
Releasing themselves to the whim
of the mechanical beast,
they're powerless.
There will be moments
of pure ecstasy as they lerk forward,
plunging into the unknown.
Times of stillness will come --
sometimes the ride simply breaks down --
depending on the patience of the rider,
the ride might continue.
For most,
the ride will eventually end,
and they'll wait in someone else's line.
For few,
they'll ride that roller-coaster forever,
happily resting when all is said and done.

The single word that defines
all
                       of
                                               this
was obviously assigned by someone
who has never been on a roller-coaster.

If we are but grains of sand,
he is a warm embrace and soft kisses as
she is the single pearl ring given to a blushing date.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the oyster that works like a factory and
she is now part of the bracelet given to the new bride.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the hands that pries her free but
she is already in the long necklace hanging from the neck of a grieving widow.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the greatest lie and
she is the most lovely tragedy.

You
        may
               be
                    in
                       my
                             dreams,
                                          but
                                                you
                                                      are
                                                            not
                                                                  of
                                                                      them.

Ears are like keyholes
Words are like keys
If what is said doesn't fit,
it won't go in.
If what is said is denied,
the words will be changed
to fit the ears.
But every notch you fill,
every carve you make,
is only hurting you.
It's a pain that is subtle at first,
but the reality of it sets in;
you crumble to pieces.
I've changed so many keys
to fit so many ears,
but I can't stop,
even when every tear is like acid.
Ears only want specific keys,
and will turn away anything else.
It's about time someone listened
to the raw words that mumble in my mind.
It's about time that I force the key in,
instead of shaping it to their liking,
instead of leaving scars on my cheeks.
It's about time,
for them to
face reality.

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.

If he were a canvas,
     My fingers through his dark hair
     Would be gentle whips of cornflower
     Or the shade of the southern shores
     Aching for sun kissed sands.

     The deep tint of the midnight hour
     Is the feel of my palm on his cheek;
     Unspoken words spark between our skin,
     Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur.

If he were a canvas,
     Our breathless laughter
     Is a warm canary radiating
     Across all the dark spaces we ignore
     Like solitary candles in suburban windows.

     Our hushed voices on the pillow
     Is the gold with which the sun shines;
     The reflection of my heart in his eyes
     Is silver like a glowing full moon.

If he were a canvas,
     My lips gently grazing his forehead
     Are a soft powder pink,
     Like the petals of an awakening rose
     Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn

     But when mine meet his, amaranth.
     A ceaseless incandescence
     Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence
     From a flower seeded in our gray matter.

     When he touches my skin
     It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria
     And suddenly I see the painting
     Has covered the painter in romantic chaos

And it is the apron they put on display.

I want to mark my skin
like the ever-stained hem of the sleeves
that lick my knuckles like the sea foam
of a southern beach.

I want each pore to be filled
with the same heaviness that each streak
of watered-down mascara holds
as it lingers on the ends of my worn-out shirt sleeves.

Every line must mirror the soul
trapped in the blackened rivers
that forever run parallel to each other.

The curves crafted by the needle
will sway with same helium
he fills my chest with;

the crosses and dots will pack
the kisses he planted tenderly on my lips.

My first tattoo must be more than ink,
it must be heart.

Silly children play
around the mulberry bush
as the twilight starts


Lightning Bugs floating
A magical world awaits
Will you dance with me?


Many years ago
I know we used to be One
Now we're divided


Lies written in paint
A dark mask on a dark face
Red lips hide the truth.

You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river
And now I know that I am that swollen western stream
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
And you are the man that is sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling me how the sun made me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills...
I know that I am that western vein because
I know I give more than I take,
I know I could never stick around for long...
I feel like you're like the others
Who held me in a colander and
Walked away with all I could give them.

One Rose.
One Rose is beautiful, special, unique.

One bouquet.
One bouquet is overwhelming, unoriginal, common.

One Rose.
One Rose that has been nursed from a seed, watched grow, and given at the perfect time.

One bouquet.
One bouquet that was hastily picked, paid for, and given out of fit.

One Rose.
One Rose is all a person truly needs.

One bouquet.
One bouquet if you haven't found your Rose just yet.

I fell in love with a piece of paper
and a picture of you. Now here you stand,
and I don't quite know what I am to do…

We were lonely souls, you and I; felt like
only each other heard our laughs and cry.

Yet here we are, miles apart yet inches
so close. All I can hear are the words on
the paper; acting like an overdose.

You're not a picture, and neither am I,
falling in love was short; destined to die.

Love we did, even though our time quickly
ticked away. But my love was true; it could
not be born, ravish, and cease in a day.

A question in my head, it must be said:
Will I be back, as our history read?

True, I can not stop the dreams, but these bad
habits are hard to break. I'd rather miss
you than have more of your love bruises ache.

You're a part of me, like a glove, I can't
rid this picture and paper of you, love.

I will keep you near, of course, so you can
perhaps watch me grow, in awe or hatred,
to one day let go of your heavy woe.

Scars left from the battle of heart and mind --
My choice is clear, though it left my mouth ****.

My heart breaks, the body recuperates,
this time I’ve had enough of these rust gates.

Goodbye to the man in front of me, and
everyday Good Morning to the picture
staring, eyes bright, with pain and painted glee.

If only pictures showed what was below
the skin, then maybe we wouldn’t have sinned?

He was born a boy
who knew he belonged
who felt safe at home and
who earned his way at school
He grew into a man
who knew where to walk
who felt harmonized
who earned his place among friends.
He was an untouched innocent
who never knew death
who never felt the animalistic actions of war and
who never earned respect from a captain
He matured into a soldier
who will always know battles
who will never feel safe again and
who has earned his right as a warrior.
He’s a transformed man
who will carry every death
who will waste away inside and
who will be destroyed before it all ends.
*Paul Baumer

You only listen to clouds once they’ve rumbled,
And once they strike you wonder
How you could’ve possibly missed the warnings.
Lightning strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback,
But didn’t you see them shift?
Two dark bodies slamming into each other:
Colliding with rage and silent fear,
Conducting something sporadic and deadly,
Only to leave nothing but an echo and a reminiscing glow in the dark sky.
Sometimes it starts a fire, or takes a life,
But I love to watch it dance across the sky:
I shouldn’t.
Something so tragic and deadly should not fill me with awe,
Shouldn’t make me study and wonder --
Should make me cower and weep and mourn.
Lighting strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback.
It is the action to the voice the clouds whisper at night,
It is the last cry of rage or loneliness or fear,
It is sudden, but not without warning or precursor
You just have to be aware enough:
Watch as they dance.
See them cry and shake,
Listen to the rumble of their voice,
Feel the electricity dancing on the soft hairs of your arms,
Smell the damp city sidewalks,
Taste the copper on their tongue,
Watch as they dance across the sky:
Lightning struck so fast, it took everyone aback.

They call a deep orange-red moon “******,”
That, somehow, she can hurt and wound like I…
How absurd! A rock can’t show tears or glee
Yet she is as joyous as stars are nigh.

Goddess Moon kissed Mother Earth in passion,
Fire consum’ng their love so time would not.
Time is a hunter they could not outrun,
As he ripped them apart, doomed them to rot.

One grew lush and strong, the other ice cold;
One circled the other in longing stares,
The other raising man in open wolds;
Memories in scars -- what a tragic pair.

Bleed, Moon, bleed as I do cry for lost love,
Alone and cold with the stars high above.

If I could rearrange my body,
I'd move my humorous bone to my brain
because, honestly, I'm the last one to get the joke.
The sole of my feet would house my heart
so every step I take, Mother Nature feels my love.
My ears would be close to my hands
so when I reach out, he'll see that I'm listening.
One eye behind my head, the other facing forward,
one looking for stray daggers, the other focused on the future.
I'd move some bones to form a breastplate
because I'm more afraid of what's to come than what happened.
I just wouldn't want to loosen my humanity.

So a guy asked me out the other day, but I was so scared he'd be too much like you that I said "no," and I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult anymore.

It was a fire that froze me,
flames grazed a heart barely beating,
freezing me firm
from a core of embers, heat of great therm,

the standstill of a solid soul,
a final surge of a song shook
from a burning center
riddled with freezing scars; make my words slur

with drunken lips and a harsh breath.
Frozen by passion so intense
I sit by the ice,
Hoping the chill will be my body's vise.

So cold, so cold, the fire swept me
From the arms that held me so dear,
Maybe this iced glow
Melds a chilled, burnt heart, only God will know.

A fire. A fire, I say!
It iced my very bones solid,
His heat left me cold--
He was my sun, the only thing to hold.

Trapped in your green eyes
I'm so lonely yet so loved
Knowing I'll be yours

I wish I could find the book titled you,
The haphazard bounded and embroidered
Cover with pages spilling golden rue
And blurred lines under every lovely word…
But I don’t know where to look anymore
Or if my heart wants to ache like it did.
I couldn’t burn the secrets or foreswore
And forget the love seared on my eyelids…
But my thrum is in the eyes of a man,
Laced in every vein, waiting on his lips
Like a drug deal not according to plan
And your relapse stinging like poison whips.
     I’ve held and been held by this book in dreams
     And secret studies full of rouge sunbeams.
     Perhaps this diversion is what I needed;
     Maybe someday I'll learn to stop the bleeding?

I've tasted jealously before.
Jealousy for objects,
but never for a person.
It's a sickening taste,
and a nauseating smell,
but it fills me.
This jealously pools in my eyes
and rolls down my cheeks
in fat green drops.
And I can feel it -
bubbling angrily inside me.
It rises and falls like the tide
It churns and thrashes about
like a wave during a storm
or a wild beast -
it wants to be released onto her.
And the one thought that races through my mind:
HOW DARE SHE.
How Dare She..
how dare she...
As long as she is about,
my senses are nothing but useless.
Even when she is gone,
the thought of her angers a beast inside me.
And all I can think of is
*how
dare
she

The painting collided with the steaming floorboards,
a single nail which once held the frame
torn in half like warmed taffy --
a single string, thin like a strand of hair,
dangling in the painting's place,
swaying in the slightest breath.
The wooden six-panelled window trim cracked and whined
but the glass remained untouched,
reflective of the doll carefully decorating the fur-covered bed.
Crystal eyes blink but do not break,
a manicured hand overlaying her mouth,
melding with the porcelain that is her skin.
Her elongated lashes dripped down her blushed cheeks.
She shook slightly but did not move.
Her ears, hidden beneath ruby locks, burst.
A puff of black smoke pushed its way past her curls,
framed by the sound of barotrauma.
Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttered shut,
chin collided with the soft skin of her chest . . .
A slug dropped onto her shoulder,
wiggling side to side with its newfound freedom.
It lost its balance on her delicate sleeve
and landed on my lap in a gooey pile of slime.
There are too many mirrors in this melting room . . .
I can't twitch my eyes without meeting the doll's.
The mirrors shattered as the frames which held them contracted.
The room glittered like the inside of a snowball,
but soon the luster turned to dust,
and the shards left clinging to the frame turned black,
bubbling glass dancing to a lethargic beat down the length of the walls,
trickling into the melted monstrosity swaying like an angry sea.
All the while the doll sat content in her fur-covered bed.

Snow was a carpet in the front lawn.
The tree loomed in the corner, proudly
decorated with tinsel and ornaments. Piles
of springs and cushions blocked the window,
blocked the cold breath of Father. But as the snow
melted, the Earth began to wake. The tree was
removed, place aside to be set ablaze, and the
leather and tweed was moved to let Mother
in. It was always open, letting the smell
of Her warmth float onto the carpet.
Little brothers liked to invite
the rainy ground inside, let
it splatter the wood and
coat the cushions.
When the sun
shone brighter,
hotter, machines
lured the sticky air
inside, and blew a fresh,
cool, breeze into an empty room.
Dust covered the furniture while the
dominant creatures retreat elsewhere. By
the time autumn comes Mother is growing
tired, Father is growing stronger. the sofas are
moved to make room for a painting or new lamp.
Father crawls in again and the sofas are moved to make
room for the tree, to barricade against Father, just like last year.
The cycle starts again, but with a new year.

He’s an angel, like me, like his other siblings.
He’s a brother, little brother.
He’s blood, my blood.
He is the youngest,
the weakest, and
the lowest of the combined four.

His flights are lower to Earth,
farther from Heaven.
closer to Hell,
Humans adore him,
his parents spoil him;
Satan sways him.

He turns his back on his worshipers,
backstabs them,
and leaves them to die.
Humans fear they have done something wrong,
they showers him in gifts
they plea for their lives.

I cry as he watches them burn.
I reach out to them,
I am ignored.
More offerings.
More gifts.
More pleas.

I plea,
I kneel,
I kiss their feet, but
our parents are lost in my brother’s spell,
my brother’s trick,
my brother’s façade.

I go to his worshipers,
I warn them of his treachery, and
I am branded as a demon for turning on my blood,
I’m gagged and
I’m silenced,
I’m forced to watch.

His wings are tainted black,
his skin is pulled tight around the bones and from
his joints, spikes emerged.
Small streams of blood fall from his hands
It falls to his people.
It’s treated like rains as they dance in it.

He commands his parents and
He influences his humans.
He is whispered to by Satan.
He flies farther from Heaven,
He grazes the ground of Earth,
He flies in the skies of Hell.

I’m raising an army,
a small rebellion of lost angels and
a band of rebellious humans.
We will take down this demon.
This fallen angel,
This brother.

I will be banished or destroyed.
I will leave with an open mind, a higher flight,
I will know they are safe from him.
My siblings do not abandon me
My humans rally behind me, but
My parents will try to suppress me.

The three of us will be his doom,
his Apocalypse,
his inevitable downfall.
Just as he shows no mercy;
no mercy for his humans,
no mercy shall be given to him.

He is my blood
He is my little brother,
He is my family.
But he is also my greatest enemy  
my wisest foe and
my demon.

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.

He never knew he held my heart.
Never aware, even as he gave his away
and she gave hers to him.
It's cramped in here -
her heart beating next to mine
in the warmth of where his heart once was.
I want to leave,
to escape so her heart can flourish.
I never held his heart -
Why pretend like I did? -
He's not mine to fight for, never mine to keep.
Trying to leave quickly is like
trying to rip a snake,
whose venom fangs are plunged deep,
off your arm in one swift movement.
With tears in my eyes and a strained smile for her,
I take the snake from flesh,
but the venom chokes my heart
to a shade of blacken green.

Invincible.
You don't need a big poem to describe that feeling.
That one, simple, four syllable word
Is so powerful
There's no way to describe it properly.
Invincible.