Love is a creature
That sits along side my God
And plays my ballad

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

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.

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
What makes me me.
What makes a
Beach a
beach

What makes a beach a beach?
Makes it not a cliff;
Not an abyss?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

Without any water,
The Sand will not be.
It will stay rocks,
Become cliffs
Without
It.

If the Sand were not sand,
Water would usurp
The beach.  It would
Be ocean
Without
It.

The Water is a passion
that could become visious.
The Sand is strict as earth
that has become stable.


What makes this beach unique?
Makes it so unreal;
A fantasy?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
Because it's all
Part of me:
Good and
Bad.

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.

I'm going to start walking backwards now: I'm pretty sure I'm facing the wrong way. I can't keep looking into the past and expecting to arrive at the future.

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.

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

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.

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

I was no more than a small girl,
When a cat wondered to my front porch step.
A cat with jet black fur and
eyes like melted chocolate --
He was mystifying, interieging,
and I wanted him for my own.

I saved enough money so that:
Everyday, I put food out for him.
Everyday, I brought him toys to play with.
Everyday, we could talk for hours --
All on my front porch step.

One day, my dark eyed beauty spotted another.
She gave him better food.
She gave him fancy toys.
She offered more attention.
One day, he didn't come to my front porch step.

He was not mine to keep, so
I could not demand him back.
That day my mother taught me something:
"If you love something, let it go.
If it comes back, it was meant to be."

But he never came back.
He left me alone,
Alone on my front porch step.

I learned that day that love is selfish.
It demanded that I exclude myself to all but one.
I learned that love is cruel.
It's a drug that we're all addicted to.
I cried, all alone on my front porch step.

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.

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?

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.

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

12:00 to 12:01 may just be a fleeting moment,
but it is the longest moment of my life.
For 60 seconds, I want nothing more than
to be with you again.
At the same time, I know by 12:02,
I won't feel this way.
I can hear the clock tower ringing out:

1 - Seeing you again.
2 - How are you doing?
3 - Thinking about how good you look.
4 - "Why did I let you go?"
5 - Feeling your touch in my head.
6 - Are you happy?
7 - Imagining your hands on my waist.
8 - "Why did I let you go?"
9 - Wanting to be able to fall asleep with you again.
10 - Do you think about me?
11 - The pain of never speaking to you again.
12 - "Why did I let you go?"

I don't know why my heart tortures me so.
Why it craves for the one thing my mind rejects.
Is this what it feels like to fall "head over heels?"
Is love supposed to be thoughtless?

I fear I will never truly love
Never truly let someone in for fear they will hurt me.
I've grown up with people telling me
You need to break up before you end up broken
I say that I don't love you,
but perhaps it's the fear talking?
Or maybe it's just the 60 seconds?

I've never been good with spoken words and maybe this is why
because everything just seems to spill out in rambles and tangents
like trying to follow a scribble cloud as if its a map to buried treasure  
locked deep inside with the secrets and I could never quite tell you,      
not straightforward anyway, how I felt when you sat in front of me,         
but that's not an excuse, and maybe I shouldn't tell you that when I           
see you I feel like I'm being drawn and quartered with every emotion        
pulling selfishly at me but maybe that's just me and perhaps I'm over          
exaggerating the momentum in which my heart holds my head but I         
can't say for sure because all I can hear is a constant drumming…         
constant drumming... constant drumming… and it never stops           
even as the sun sets and you, so far away, somehow crawl into my    
head as if its a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard, but I am the
exact opposite and if my words don't convince you than perhaps a    
cold shoulder will burn the idea into the soft skin of the arms that used    
to hold me when I cried about those stupid little things that I laugh at      
now and you'd laugh with me, oh that laugh, would fill me with a heat   
that could challenge all the stars in the universe and yet it flickered so      
quickly like a single flame suddenly at the will of a breath that has            
become so shallow and shaken by the tears of something deep inside      
shattering at such an immense speed that everything else is slow motion   
in comparison, and maybe my head is right to think that you're no good   
for me, but don't think for a moment that I could possibly keep you out  
of the mind that has become so crowded and yet you sit in the center of
it all like a king, or perhaps a dictator, that knows he belongs there in
that crowded space just under my ribs echoing with that beat, that constant
drumming that runs through my body like a relentless river as it destroys          
everything in its wake and runs along a silent stream of thoughts and words           
that pour out of my mouth when I open it…                                                              ­

and that is why I am no good with spoken words.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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

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...

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

if only
they could shine
a little
bit brighter

there is nothing
wrong with the stars
and how they shine
like a dozen
scattered diamonds

i want to
change the stars
so that they
shine brightest*

but i like them
the way they are
he took the brush
and he started
to dot the sky
with bitter lies

i scream for halt
he doesnt stop
destroying stars
is like killing
a hope held dear

in one swift movement
ive casted you out
of my secret world
and i want to think
that youre out somewhere
all cold and alone
in reality
you are probably
fine

i walk all alone
in my secret world
everywhere i turn
memories of you
walk behind me like
ghosts

you are the black line
that leaves the rainbow
stained

you left dead flowers
where we once watched the
stars

you were not content
with leaving your mark
you tried to change me
all i can ask is
why

i guess im not bright
enough to be your
star

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

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.

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.

Poetry is fleeting.
It's like a drop of water on your dry tongue in the desert -
you don't know when it'll come again -
a scary feeling.
It's like a storm that passes over you, drenching you in rain -
but only for a brief moment -
and then it's gone.
It's like a passing subway train.
It's like a flash of lightning and
the only thing that you can remember is an echoing thunder where it once shone.
One moment it's there, singing songs and rhymes in your head.
And the next, it leaves you drained with only fragments.
You only have a few seconds.
By the time it's written, it's different, and can never be the same again.
It can never be that Angel's whisper,
but a true artist depends on how close you can get to that Angel.

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.

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