i'm pretty sure
this is one of
the wisest pieces
of advice
i've seen

well meaning, anyway.

i walk alone
and it's a strange thing

every single time
i begin walking
i have an intense urge
to bust a move
and dance to the
music in my ears

but that would be
like feeding the animals

so i don't do it.

i am suspicious
when i walk alone
so i am constantly glancing
behind me
preparing to fight

in my mind
i am a fantastic fighter
my body moves
in deadly arcs
i can turn
anything
into a weapon
and i will
d r o p
any fool that
comes near me

i am an animal.
i shouldn't be fed
with crazy daydreams
but i keep. getting. fed.
and once i've been fed
i just want to eat more

the desire is overwhelming.

every few days
i consider taking up
a new hobby
like smoking,
or a destructive
non-committal attitude

but i always decide
not to feed
this animal
anything

but words.

She is stubborn ... Gets mad constantly ... Rarely listens to anyone ..but that's because most are attempting to change her .. And transform her into someone she does not wish to be
     She is brave
         She is strong
             She is unique
She dances and sings under the moonlight
     Looking up at the sky she wishes upon a star that one day she will reach paradise ... A place were she will be free ... To be herself ...
Without being afraid to express who she really is inside
The girl siting quietly at the back of the classroom ... She is who has the most beautiful dreams
Though many may not notice her ... She is more fearless
than you might expect ... And when you see her cry as others make fun of her ... Those tears will only make her stronger than she already is... Because she is wise enough to keep being who she is
Not trying to please the world ... Instead simply listening to her heart ... Allowing nature to be her silent guide ...and music her inspiration ... Closing her eyes ..she can see more clearly than ever before ... At last she won't ever forget to love ... Loving herself is the first step ...

This poem got up and wrote itself
While I was fast asleep
This poem soon enough found out
It had no need for me

Guess it felt it needed to get
A few things off its chest
Wandering around the halls of poetry
While I was snoring in my bed

This poem made its planned escape
From the clutches of my mind
With a basic need that it must feed
On the artistry of rhyme

Taking full advantage of
My unconsciousness
As I lay here dreaming
In my nightly world of bliss

Yes, this poem wrote itself
Without the benefit of me
Proving it can do a better job
When I am sound asleep

"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

What if we had been strangers on a train
And I asked you what book you were reading.
You'd say:
“The Old Man and The Sea.”
Then I’d tell you I’d never read it before.
You’d say it was your favorite.
And ask for mine,
“Tuesdays with Morrie,”
I’d answer.
We’d bond over similar music taste
The **
PRiNCe
Flight of the Conchords.
You’d compliment my sweater.
I’d admire your socks.
Maybe I’d be bold and ask to take your picture,
But probably not.
Instead I’d ask you name
And you’d ask mine.
I’d smile at your reaction.
”Nice to meet you Oshin.”
Then you’d go back to reading your book
And I’d try to find another excuse to talk to you.

Dear ghost of a lover,
Sweet, angelic thoughts.
Temptation in its most swelling form.
Haunt me, please haunt me?
Haunt my thoughts, and my experiences...
Just be there.

Desperation clinging to every vibration.
Vibrations devoid of you, of your presence.
Decadent ghost of a stranger I must
Forget.

Victim to my salvation.
Deserter of my desperation.
Lover from a lifetime ago.
Seek me. Your vengeance of
Silence is too cruel.
The emptiness consumes me.

don't let yourself fall in love
with that boy who plays bass
whispers jokes that make your face go red from not being able to breathe
and immediately holds you the day you come back
don't hang onto his every word
nor take note of the way his eyes catch fire
like a sheet of paper over an open flame
every single time he tells you how much he adores to make music
don't let his mannerisms dictate you
when his arms find you on a daily basis
when you ignore the teachings about diffraction and ray diagrams
just to listen to whatever is on his wonderfully, woefully confusing mind
because soon enough
you'll be writing him poems online using a fake name
and staying up till four am
thinking about how his voice cracks and quivers when he sings seven nation army
about how excited he gets to play you something he has written
about the sideways glances he gives you when you try to get his attention
about the places his hands reside every single time he touches you
and about the way his lips tasted like starburst jelly beans and cherry pepsi on that sunny wednesday afternoon
he completely inverts your perception of the world
and now matter how much you want to
don't
fall
in
love
with
him.