I've never seen eyes quite like yours.
A 17th century folklore might label you a changeling,
try to **** your colic with honey,
and, I'm sorry to say,
but you could've been burned at the stake
with eyes like that.

Sometimes I catch your pupils riding
on a black swan's wings
stealing secrets from the breeze.
The sky around them melts my skin like a scorching Arizona sky;
Lake Placid Blue
That's when I know you're staring out the window
wishing for the birds to return
way too late in the morning.

Sometimes those eyes refract an eerie, emerald green,
like they're mimicking a sci-fi movie:
The Man who Fell to Earth
I know you are too far out in space for me to reach you then,
so I send out some light-house giggles and I hope you'll find your way back to Earth soon.

When those windows to your soul are guarded with golden, earthy chambers,
you rattle the bars with your native tongue,
cooing and commanding I recite the password again and again.
and I know exactly what to say,
when your eyes glimmer like the California gold-rush:
Let me in.

Sometimes I can hold them in one hand
while they ring like Baoding *****
entrancing me into Nirvana.
Other times they burn me like fire,
and I'm caught off guard, not enlightened enough, yet, to walk over hot coals.

You're a changeling, indeed.

But when your eyelids are closed,
and all those secrets disappear back into your soul,
you wreak of consistency,
solid as an oak tree.
Your stories seep back into your roots.
The roots that burrow deep into my soil,
familiar and warm.

I hide your secrets there.
I hold you for as long as you let me,
and I'm not afraid when you flutter back into your folklore
because I hold the key to your resting place,
the seeds of your fruitful vision.

In the warmth of May
I look at the magnolias
And wonder when I, too,
Will bloom into something
Beautiful.

Miss Yon said,

        Relax and just let it all out,
         don't worry edit later.
         Become the words on the paper,
         and then it will be great.
        Miss Yon Said

The fall is thick but,
winter is thicker.
In those months of thickness,
in my house,
with blurry figures and smiling faces,
I blow on a cake with sixteen candles.
Yet I do not know where I am.
A gypsy of sorts.
A house is not necessarily always a home.
And my heat is lost to a room,
with nothing to hold in it.
Should my father's home be a more suitable location?
but she loves me
Should my mother’s home hold more warmth?
but he loves me
To some their homes are like the sun providing comfort and warmth.
But to others like me,
our home is but an iceberg,
melting.
m
   e
     l
       t
        i
          n
              g
gone.

You know it's not easy to read a compass lacking north.
Constantly wondering where you're headed
is not fun.
My best dish is logic,
served cold.
I wake up half dead,
or alive,
to things easily confused.
But being cold is bitter,
stiff,
I am unbreakable.
I am what I experience,
I am what I see,
I am who I speak to.
I am cold.
I am unsure.
To others who underestimate me,
I am ditsy,
I am just a blonde,
I am warm,
I am funny,
not smart.
not anything that could be valued.
not someone productive.
Identity is a crisis
and we are all in it.

This is my page for English H.

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

I need you
To tell me it’s okay. I’m allergic to hay and scarecrows do their job.
Get me high, cheer me up. Let’s go on a trip.
Show me around munchkin town and their residents might lead us to the wizard. We might get stuck in a blizzard but I’ll refuse to let that cold, white powder outshine my shoes. See, I’m done with the blues. You can tickle my sore, ruby red feet. Force out of me a fluttering laugh. We’ll go somewhere over the rainbow and back. Sing me a song and I’ll try to follow along
This yellow brick road.
Pass up each rest stop but you can take me to gift shops. You can buy me a stuffed lion. Unless you’d rather the zoo. I did always need a little spontaneity to live courageously.
But who cares?
I do. Because if I only had a brain, I’d think to grease up my tin friend and give him my… a heart.
There’s a start!
I don’t wanna stop this groove in my heart… I mean… my ruby shoes, but life isn’t all emerald castles, chimney tops, and lemon drops. Over the rainbow there is no *** of gold and behind the green curtain there’s no all-seeing wizard.
Only a selfish leprechaun who sees no further than his own lashes.

I wish
I was dumb
'Cause my words of mouth
can't communicate
with you.

I wish
my eyes
get oppurtunity
to meet yours,
'Cause sometimes
it misses
the sparkle
of those enigmatic eyes.

I wish
I could be
the breeze of fresh air
early in morning which
hugs you first
when you go to sleep.

I wish
to be a reason
for your smile...
a smile
that you can never forget.

I wish to be
your wish
once.