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 must think you're funny
parading around with that mask on.
People must think you're smart
convincing them of your deep thoughts.
Epimetheus, dear, you were never one
for prethoughts.
Now look at what you've done.
My love for you is burning.
You dangled it above the flames,
threatening it,
questioning its validity.
But I pushed it in --
held that dilapidated beat in the bluest flame
and listened to you scream as it died.
You have nothing over me now --
I am free.

I was drowning in holy water to get to you,
Praying to a man I couldn't accept for you,
Burning in the next pew to get close to you.
You sewed your hands for your God
And tried so hard to lace that red thread through my flesh.
Faith is a mighty tree you blighted with Doubt.
Belief is the sunshine you shadowed in Fear.
But, oh my God, you are my creature of temptation
And I'd forget it all if you would too...
But your hands and sewn together
And my mirrored palms are still healing from your needle.

I met him at a party
The late night buzz and low lights
The blaring music and loose dancing
All shrouded in a fog of assorted drugs.
I met him at a party,
And he wrote his 10 numbers
On the back of my small hand.
I remember his smirk and
the way he said Call me.
He disappeared into the fog,
and is still awaiting a call
from that girl he met at a party.

It was late when I stumbled home,
Pepermint gum trying to hide
the harsh alcohol in my breath.
I came home and saw his number,
and for some reason,
thought it was yours.
I crawled through the haze of my house,
trying to find my room, my bed.
I snaked under the blankets,
and for some reason,
thought you were laying beside me.
I've never slept so soundly in my life.

By morning, my parents are asking questions,
but all I can see is his number on my hand.
I thought to myself
Now's my chance to start over,
to love someone new,
to forget the past.
I cried --
for joy or sadness, I'll never know.
Those tears fell onto his number,
and with a flick of my thumb,
it was gone.

The exchange happens
every year
every day
every hour.
Maybe the exchange happens
in the dead of night.
In the back ally of
some deserted block in
a busy city.
Mainly, the exchange happens
In broad day.
In flocks of chairs
that pack together in
one busy building.
The exchange is priceless,
so it is sold for free.
No, that's a lie--
You must offer your own--
sooner or later.
There is no due date
no interest
no penalties.
Whether you know it or not
you have taken part in the
exchange
every year
every day
every hour.

Six AM and it's time for the medication,
the parade of pills and liquids to start.
One for the cyst in your shoulder,
it won't make it better --
it just dulls the pain until it tears.
Two for the muscles eroding in your knees,
you said they were feeling better --
but you just felt guilty for wasting dad's earned money.
One drop in each eye for the inflammation,
the late nights in worn contacts
have caused some disease in your eyes.

Noon and the parade continues.
One drop in each eye for the inflammation,
slipping into the bathroom during school.
Two pills for the migraines,
they've become constant now.

Six PM and the parade still marches.
One pill for the cyst in your shoulder,
hopefully the popping sound will go away,
and you can put the sling away.
Two pills for the muscles eroding in your knees,
up and down and up and down the stairs all day,
wishing for a real relief from the pain.
One drop in each eye for the inflammation,
now they begin to sting,
the steroids doing something -- just not their job.

Ten PM and the parade begins to shut down.
One drop in each eye for the inflammation,
praying tomorrow the pain will be gone --
for a natural sleep with natural dreams.
Fifteen mL of liquid sleep aid,
it battles the steroids and the insomnia,
but doesn't stop the nightmares.

Six AM comes too soon,
the parade starts again.

I've gotten quite good at swallowing large amounts of pills...

Hush yourself to the foreignly familiar sound
you've known your entire life --
it's the sound of nothing,
                                             the sound of blackness.
Close your eyes,
but it's no different from when you leave them
staring into the voided eternity.

The thin hairs coating your arms
like sleeves of chain mail stand attention
as the strange chill sweeps over your body.
Darting eyes like two blue dragonflies
locked in a twisted duet
search the space just out of reach as if
looking longer or quicker may catch something
     off guard.

Breath deep.
                        Deeper.
Take in the familiar scent of you
in the frail cocoon you've wrapped yourself in.
Struggle against it,
                                   fall into it,
entomb yourself as a way to fight
the sudden dryness of your tongue and lips.
Lap them again as your mind wonders
to a place of blue skies and bluer seas...
                                                                       and then snap back.
Something has broken the foreignly familiar sound of night
and it seems to be breathing down your neck,
shooting waves of panic and
                                                   adrenaline deep into your bones.

The surface ripples like the whisper of
A knife through the space between her
Ribs, and although it may be Great, it
Is but a spec on the sapphire that is our
Earth. Thousand stepped lavender
Converse soles suspended, kissing the
Lips of the restless waves like a
Gentleman upon her pearl clasped
Glove, oh how I wish she could see the
Way her eyes pulled at me like a
Riptide. And oh how I'd give to kiss
The water in her place, but she made
Love to the very lake she bore from
The depths of sleepless nights. She was
Waterborne with every crumbling step
Over cracked city sidewalks,
Wandering like a bottled message at
The whim of currents. I think she
Would have liked to sink to the
Bottom, but they've raised her like a
Bullet shredded battle flag. I think she
Would have floated in the silence of
Eternity instead of speaking through
Rotting lips. Perhaps would have
Rather whispered the petals of a
Midnight rose to his boat than kissed
The tips of his time tattered converse
Sneakers. Perhaps she would have
Wanted to catch him as he mirrored
Her dive into
                        oblivion?

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.

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.

That look.
That eye piercing, judgmental, closed expression that leaves you closed out.
She’s already made up her mind. She’s done speaking even before words
were spoken. She’s done. It doesn't matter what you say now, no matter
the white in your words. She’s constructed a story, in that rock thick
head, it’s become a truth. And even if the two of you were to find
some kind of agreement, she will always express doubt. She will
always think you're telling a lie. She'll walk away, ready to tell
the story she’s constructed and place words in your mouth.
And you’ll cry, in the room right above her. You’ll cry in
frustration, and anger, as a distasteful flavor fills your
mouth – the taste of false quotation and fabricated
words. The part that’s going to **** you inside is
the fact that you're going to go back downstairs
and act like nothing ever happened in that room
right above her. If she can’t hear you when you’re
right in front of her, there’s no way she’d hear the sound
of dozens of tears as they roll down your cheek and crash onto
the hardwood floor. A stain that will remain for only a few moments,
then it'll dry out, dead. And you'll put on a façade and agree with her lies
because you never wanted any trouble. You never wanted to see her mad or
disappointed. You'll just agree because you convinced yourself it’s the right thing
to do. Well everytime you lie to yourself, it adds a pebble to your back. You’ll
become a slave to these lies and carry them everywhere. And with each one
you’ll feel more and more alone until you're about to snap. You’ll go to her
for comfort and she'll tell you everything is okay and that this is just
teenage angst. Another lie, placed into your mouth as you agree.
Another pebble. Another back break. Another tear.
But who’s counting? You are. Who cares?
You do. And, in the end,
who’s alone?
You are.

The hot summer breath pours over the expanse of my exposed neck,
nearly silent as it reminds the rest of my body of the shadow's chill.
I'm under a tree, its leaves hang in the air as if they have no weight;
they simply decide to lay their heads on the sea-sprayed grass below.
The waves kick up from the water lurching below, kissing my brow;
I want to peak over the edge, but I know if I do I'll fall straight down.
It's an arm around my waist and under my temple that holds me back,
A kiss on my crown and the feeling of fingers interlacing with my own.

shift

My cheek rests upon the soft surface of a desert's sun-kissed sand,
everywhere I look the dunes never end, they simply shimmer into the sky.
I breathe out hot wind onto a landscape that defines the very word,
watching the breath create stirs that turn to circles that turn to clouds.
The clouds become a storm, but not a single grain of sand grazes my skin:
I trace the spine of this towering wall with the very tip of my finger nail.
It trembles under my touch but does not waver against the mighty storm;
my body curves to his, my arm around his torso, my cheek upon his back.

shift

Here I float among the stars and planets as I look upon the earth,
gently, like the bobbing of a canoe down a river, I glide on the moon.
I can feel my heart pounding through the thick material of my suit,
or perhaps it is another's as I can feel my own through my hand.
The two different beats dance and race until they are nearly one,
putting on a show with lighting provided by the Milky Way above.
Something stronger than gravity holds me fast from drifting away:
an arm around my back, my cheek upon a chest, rising with his breath.

shift

The vines of the jungle hold me tight under the thick canopy above,
humidity causes a bead on my brow, but I dare not shake it from its place.
I am like a body in a coffin, but more like soft pink petals in a spring bud,
held tight but not too firm as not to cause a misguided cut or bruise.
The sunlight burns my skin, the rays that squeeze through the ceiling
try to bubble and churn me into a misshapen form, but I am protected.
Forehead to forehead, a heartbeat in my palm, mine between is fingers;
four legs tangled, unidentifiable, so they become ours not mine.

shift

The sunlight kisses his crown and falls through my lashes,
unforgiving of any peace we may have found with eyes closed.
A small bed in a small room, two people stumble in at two in the morning.
They talk of the future, of rings and a white dress between quick breaths
and within the slow mumbles of midnight gripped promises.
For now, he wakes her with a soft kiss like a single drop of spring rain
and she reaches for him with fingers dripping in memories of a dream.
To them, love is an unspoken promise,
like the change of the seasons or the pull of the tide.

*shift

Red, red is the color of my hunger,
like the blood that flows from the cut
on my left ring finger. Like the rose that
withered on                  my front door step.
Like the color               of my cheeks or
the echoing of a bruise. Your hunger
is a darkness that is simply
nothing, like            a black hole of
constantly               collapsing stars
that shine                  like an angler fish’s
allure. Like                a deep, deep green
that feeds                   upon the beautiful.
Like a hypnotic            blue that envelopes
you in a trance              of one thousand pounds.

Lullaby of the city, bright and strong,
Serenade the masses of the sleepless,
The tossing and turning, troubled tense throng
Of our kin bubbling over with stress.
Ink covered fingers flowing like water --
Pouring o'er paper in sharp curvatures.
Lips like verbs, eyes like green glass he'll shatter;
Like an open book with a hardcover.
Ballad of beautifully broken notes
Ringing through the chilling autumn air
Gathering the hearts and the tears of most
To bring the sorrowful much needed cheer.
     Like the steam from her black cup of coffee
     Not quite here; she's warm, hearty and happy.

I don't fear heights anymore
Because I realize
I'm already falling.
Head first, arms outstretched,
Fingers achingly awaiting
The softness of your skin.
You have me in some strange place--
Where I'm among the stars
Yet stomach caught in free fall,
Head spinning
Yet eyes clearly seeing you,
Warmed by your arms
Yet shaking from your touch.
Down
        Down
                Down
                   ­      We go,
Yet we don't worry about the bottom.
As long as I have you now,
For this very second,
I don't care if I'm taken tonight.

Late September kisses the nape of my sweat beaded neck
as I watch the sun rise over the towering skyline of the city.
71D heading east on 5th Avenue --
its four-ways pulsing like a heartbeat monitor.
My legs ache as I pull myself into its hollowed out torso;
my eyes itch, my lips throb, my skin resonates memories
of hours drowning in late night revels as I lean against the side
of the beast coasting towards the awakening autumn sky.
The hum of its breathing vibrating my lungs and
shaking the soles of my worn converse, the orange washed clouds
filling the spaces between metal towers like some sort of abstract painting.
I sway and bounce to the beat of its wheels on these barren streets,
each jolt shooting more pain through my spine
until I radiate with a dull red hue. The glow pours over my body
and washes onto its floors, dissipating into its skeleton and
leaving me chilled. The beast groans, the sun now glaring
through into the driver's eyes, as it pulls to a short stop.
I step out, ignoring the aches as Morning's hand guides me home,
back to my bed,
to sleep away Evening's drunken hands and puffed breath.

I am the road-paver,
I am the stone-setter,
the aimless wonderer.

Not a second glance
as I lay the manse,
but not a chance

that I receive praise
for this golden runway
on which you will parade.

But, how lovely is she
dancing content, so free,
she makes it look so easy.

I'm not one for pride
but dance shoes worn and dried,
yet only given a small aside.

I am the road-paver,
the stone-setter,
the aimless wonderer,
don't mind me, I'll just be
keeping quiet,
because I know better.

And then she was a chasm,
A cavity of weakness;
Void of throat shredding screams,
Drowning in mind mincing whispers.
She is now hollow of all
But a single reverberating beat
Clawing at the Heaven she yearns for.

But she is now a chasm,
A cavity of sorrow;
She found the space behind her ears
Home to hundred-legged creatures;
Her mouth's roof now scarred
From the family of nesting bats;
The glow worms that once illuminated her dark eyes
Sleep.

That is all she will ever be:
A Chasm.
Her bones broke when she joined the mountain side.
Muscles turned to moss, skin to crumbling stone.
Her lashes are now the stalagmites and stalactites
And although she did not open her eyes to this,
She is no neophyte to the mountain's arms.
She simply allows herself to forget for a time.

The streets only glisten after rain,
Puddles catch the setting sun or
Soup the city's flickering street lights:
Suddenly the landscape is scattered with diamonds.

Sea shells only appear after a storm,
The waves kick and scream only
The best and the biggest ones to the surface:
Decorating the shore with rediscovered treasures.

A wolf only sings when it cries,
His echoes in the moonlit valley
Resinate from his shuddering chest:
Flying across the land ever so effortlessly.

Art is only lovely when it is broken,
Tear drop stains leave the best character --
Silenced screams in paint strokes entice:
Humans lie when they say they love a happy ending.

His touch was only gilded as a memory.

My love for you is like the sunset through the tree line:
It shifts, shakes, blights at times and flourishes at others.
One thing is clear every time the day ends and
Those deep red rays touch the crown of my bowed head.
The trees do not move.
They are a constant I rely on far more than I’d admit.
The only way I could get rid of the trees
Would be if I cut them down…
I don’t have the heart to do that.

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.

"I love you, a lot. Don't break my heart, please. It ***** when people do that to you. I did it to someone else to be with you so please don't do it to me because that'd ****, a lot, because I love you."

As a poet I will always wonder
If my body ran under your fingertips like the Great Plains rolling under a tempest...
If the hollow echo of my breaking heart beating against your skin made you recoil in disgust?
Did the breath we share grow stale as it sat in my aching lungs?
Does the pale ghost of my lips make your neck shiver and tremble?
Where did your heart move when you held me; did it fill your stomach like it did mine?
Could the space where my hand used to lay thaw if you recollect?
Would your skin itch for the soft tracing of my fingertips again?
Do your ears strain for the sound of your name falling from my lips like leaves lifted by an autumn breeze?

As a person I will always wonder
If you even loved me.

Hey, everybody! So I've had this account since I started high school and now that I'm well into college and working on publishing more and more, I've created a second account dedicated to some of my favorite, more refined work. Here's the link! http://hellopoetry.com/ecarsyn/
There may be some poems from this account that you'll recognize as I'll be revising and posting on my second account from now on. I would love your support in this transition! I am open for collaborations, edits, suggestions, comments, etc!

With love,
Carsyn Elizabeth Smith

I've been tapping my pen on my spiral
trying to put words to emotion --
trying to explain a sensation so serene.
I wanted to tell you, in clever woven words
that when you touch my waist, my heart stops
that I'm not ticklish, I just want you to hold me
that your cold green eyes make me feel so warm.
What I'm trying to say -- what I want to tell you is
that I'll never be able to be sad with you around --
you wouldn't let me;
that I can't think straight with you near
and that's why I practice talking in my room.
I want to be able to tell you these things
in sophisticated metaphors and similes,
but the only thing that comes to mind
is you.

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

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...?

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.

Like a shell taken hostage by the tide,
Like the rain to the river to the sea,
I walked out that door with all of my pride
And old neglect heavy inside of me.

Now the sea foam holds where your arms would be
And the sand buries where your lips could be.
The night breeze is soft like your hands should be
Echoing like a ghost still haunting me.

The dark deep unknown kisses me goodnight.
The broken rays of dawn's soft lips entice.
The soulless ocean I cry is my plight --
The faux strength and pride turning me to ice.

Wondering of you keeps my tides churning,
Dreaming of you puts salt in my waves,
Loving you created a deep yearning,
Loosing you crafted trenches and sunk caves.

I am glass heated from a time before:
molded, cooled, cracked, worn down by sand and strain.
I walk like I'm queen of the ocean floor
Burning to feel the warmth of love again.

Today I killed a man.
He was a  good man,  with a  wife  and
three kids waiting for him in a suburban
house  about  half a  mile  from  the city
with two  nice  cars and  a  trained dog.
     I killed that man
just because  he  wanted  his money. The
one-dollar  bills  weren't  enough, so in I
went,  deep into  his   stomach, rupturing
exactly  7  different  veins, one  of  which
was a  main  artery, and  slicing  open his
spleen.  The  good  man might have lived
if he didn't take  the  man’s  hard-earned
phone. Instead,  the good  man  bled out
in a dark alley between  Main Street and
3rd   Avenue.  No  one   heard  his  cries
or  turned   a  head  to   simply  look,  so
he   died  before  any  aid  reached   him.
     I created  a  widow and  three fatherless children
     I created a broken home and a dark, dead place.
I won’t  go  to  jail though, but I will
be confiscated  because  I’m nothing
but the knife inside the thief's pocket.

I don't see blackness when I close my eyes,
I see you, me -- our moment.
Us sitting waist deep in the river between islands,
small waves lulling, and a sun
dripping oranges and reds to the west.
There is a laughter that carries the birds higher,
as we toss small shells at each other,
and you teach me to skip rocks.

Tell me if you wish it'd been different.

I think of what could have been
every time I see you
every time I hear you
every time I breathe.
The stray shell would graze your cheek,
you'd take my hand from your face
and place it over a rapid drum and say
This is for you.

Tell me if you wish it'd been this way.

Tell me if you ever think about our moment.
Am I wasting my time, holding onto this shell,
or should I let it go?
Would you watch it with me as it rolls on the river bed
and becomes forgotten?

Right place, wrong time.
That’s me.
Right intention, wrong action.
That’s me.
The crime was not mine,
but I'm the one left at the scene.
The criminal runs free,
while I’m locked away.
I arrived to help,
only to be blamed.

Let’s blame the cat
for stealing the acorns.
Let’s punish the fish
for ruining the carpet.
Let’s pull out the flowers
for getting stung.

They were in the right place,
Wrong time.
They had the right intention,
Wrong action.
The crime was not theirs,
but they’re the ones at the scene.
The criminal runs free,
while they’re locked away.
They’re only there to help,
only to be blamed.

I'm standing in a room of mirrors;
I am the only one here,
but not the only reflection.
Look to my left and see green eyes.
Turn to my right and see black eyes.
Peer over my shoulder and see blue eyes.
Lift my head to hazel eyes.
In front of me are brown eyes -
my eyes.
All at once the eyes reach out.
Green eyes place a hand on my shoulder.
Black eyes grab my wrist.
Blue eyes claw at my ankles.
Hazel eyes cradle my face.
Brown eyes look into mine.
She doesn't reach for me,
doesn't even smile as
she turns and walks away.
I take a step for her,
but the hands hold me like chains.
She looks over her shoulder with disgust,
then disappears into nothing.
I'm standing in a room of mirrors;
every reflection but my own.
Who am I
now that my own self has left me?

Walk beside me as
Snowflakes fall like memories
And melt the Wicked

I am nothing but footprints in the sand
to him.
Odious, he who left me to fight the tides,
promised me forever.
How long is forever?
                               Three years, two months,
                               Eleven days, an hour
                               and twenty-three seconds.
Now he’s back,
expecting a norm so chimerical.
But, disconsolate as I am,
sleeping ‘til body withered--
crying ‘til eyes dusted--
Yet he’s obdurate to this, my Odious.
No amount of imprecations
can succor this heartbreak.
My armored skin,
antiquated from battles long and harsh--
turned to mere paper against his words.
He has me by the corner,
above the red, red flame
and wants to act like I am not burning.
Such a silver tongue, my Odious,
he can fabricate like no other.

My dear Odious,
     Leave me to fight the tides,
     as I hope your Promethean fever
     leaves you as cold
     and as alone
     as your true heart.
Yours always,
     Detritus

The window is strung with the residue of sun dried rain drops
like strands of glowworm silk hanging from the aged ledge of the forever forward shuttle.

They're from a storm passing through not too long ago, whose wrath still rises from the fallen leaves and souped soil on the side of the busy city sidewalks,

But the sun is warm and bright and the tree line ebbing and flowing against the blue morning sky is splattered with vibrant yellows and oranges and my nose fills my lungs with the crisp breeze that stands the hair on the back of my neck and my heart skips as my mind drifts towards the wisped clouds lounging just out of reach... and my cracked lips spread... and my teeth embrace the winter kissed air... and I laugh as a warmth fills me and... I think of you.

i brought you
to my world
let you in
so you can
make your mark
i want to
recall you
Forever

please take this
a paintbrush
and help me
complete me

yours on mine
hands stacked
synchronized
to create
something new

one large stroke
and spectrums
arch the skies
where we lay
together
in the field
of flowers

let me sleep
on your arm
as we watch
the stars shine
and you say
*if only
they could shine
a little
bit brighter

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

Walk with me, if you please,
in the graveyard that was once
our Eden.
Every flower seems to perk at your touch,
our rose bursting into crimson bloom.
It was easy letting you walk from Eden,
my heart was ready,
the Goodbyes were prepared --
It was the realization at startled me:
this blossom is nothing more than a ****
through the eyes of the next person I invite.
Never again will I plant another flower like that,
not exactly,
not with your touch and your embrace.
No one will ever see the beauty that we see,
forever will the rose be something only you and I will share.
More and more flowers will be planted,
more and more will shrivel into barren hips,
and maybe one day I'll find someone to stop the infestation.
Until then, I cherish the beautiful roses,
the ones planted in laughter and love,
not the ones thrown to the earth with rage and sorrow.
You will not be forgotten,
the rose will not allow it.
I know you will not want to walk with me,
but know that the flowers will remain
just as your good memory hovers above the roses.

{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.

We all travel paths, alone, until we are intersected.
Some paths are wide enough for several people to follow,
Others are a tightrope that you have to balance.
There are roads that loop in circles, never seeming to end,
But a number of trails do not divulge from forward.
And every time a path is crossed, you meet someone new.
And, like every thing, you have a choice.

It's customary to give a piece of yourself away.
It's just a small piece, a very very small cut from your cake,
What difference will it make?
So what if all you say is:
"I love you."
Or you even give away a kiss, or something greater?
What difference will it make?

Every time you give a piece away,
That's a little less of you left for someone more important.
(That's the difference it makes.)
Someone more important than that ex-boyfriend or lost friend,
Or maybe not? Their importance in your life is up to you.
That makes this your choice.
It's up to you whether they are worthy.
This is your soul you're giving away.

Your path will continue, even if they don't choose to follow.
It goes on, sunrise to set, and throughout the night.
Mornings with cotton candy skies, and avian lullabies.
Evenings with fire clouds.
Nights with diamonds.
Don't give yourself all away at once: you'll never see what comes next.
Your path will continue, continue to be interrupted by people.
Good people with good intentions;
Devils with Angelic facades.
How much you give them is up to you,
This is your path, and your choice.

This is a world of masks.
This is a world of fake and
this is a world of backstabs.
I watched as people walk around
with faces of plastic and paint.
I watched as people glared at me
with eyes like daggers and poison.
They watched as I put on a mask
with white teeth and rosy cheeks.
Sometimes I think it's safe
Sometimes I peek outside the mask and
sometimes I speak my mind.
They listen with painted faces
They listen with stilled expressions
They listen to each other gossip after I depart.
I can feel their eyes
I can feel the words
I can feel the pain that stabs me like a voodoo doll.
It's hard to tell if the face they wear is genuine
or just a mask.