I am not a great poet or writer.
I am a simple girl and my soul is sick.

I see the picture everyday. It hangs by the television. Sometimes when I watch TV my eyes drift to the picture and my mind drifts back to that day.  His golden hair shines from the photographers light. I think he was seven, maybe eight, he had all of his front teeth again. His eyes laughing, his body relaxed and peaceful, so happy. I smile back at the picture; good memories. Then my mind is drawn back to the TV and the images of parents standing, waiting, hoping and praying, that they will see their child again.
                                      STANDING, WAITING, HOPING, PRAYING
Then my eyes go back to the picture. My son is now twenty-seven, doing well in his chosen trade. Trying to make ends meet from week to week like everyone else.  What an angelic face, so pure, so innocent.....so innocent.  My mind snaps back to the TV.  They say twenty-eight are dead, twenty are children they say. I fall to the floor and sob.  Tears run down my face and land on the carpet to be absorbed, for my heart can not....I don't want to live in this world anymore.....and I'm the lucky one. I raised my child. I had all those days that these parents would never have. These parents...STANDING AND WAITING AND HOPING AND PRAYING.....standing,waiting, hoping, praying.....standing, waiting, hoping, praying.   Did I use them well, my days? Did I hug him enough? Did I kiss him enough?  Did I listen enough? Did I love him enough........ I look back at the TV, at all those parents, standing, and waiting, and hoping, and praying, and I know, for their sake, I will love him more.

At what point can I call myself a poet?

If I could fully articulate what and how I felt
  at the moment when I watched my mother
  slowly slip away from me and this world

If I could completely convey the oppressive sense of loss
  the helplessness, the hopelessness, the loneliness
  the shocking realization of irreversibility, the finality

If my words could make you feel the draining of my soul
  the relinquishment of having even an instant in the future
  when it seems that all is perfect in my world

If I could construct a phrase that could relate the emptiness
  behind the grief that comes with knowing that no longer would
  birthdays and holidays be wrapped in her joy and infectious spirit

If my poem could shout out to you the overwhelming regret
  that accompanies the inability to hold her, to kiss her, to say I'm sorry
  or to tell her just how very much I love her ever again

If I were truly able to do these things
  maybe then I could call myself a poet


                                 Happy Mother's Day, Mom
                                    I miss you & I love you!
                                            ****'s & ooo's

After some desolate years, a strange reign came
and played your voice of cello tones deeply wild  
a resonance, I drank - my soul to follow
when my feet could no longer walk
fast my heartbeat swallowed
songs of you, haunted
hallowed

With chords that played silvery golds
in silken threads we wove
dreams and days of sun
that followed

Now sinks the sun dark below
and finds a place, a home
built for no one

I love the rain.
Nobody can tell you've been crying.

I've been living for your thoughts
My writing  has become mind numbing work for you
Every word uttered belongs to you
My confidence withers under your stare and my heart beats to the extreme
but I'll never be the girl of your dreams

I feel like crying a river.
No, I want to cry a river.
Only I know that my river of hot tears
won't make anything better.
So, I **** it up and feed
this volcano of fear and anger
that roars inside me.
And I helplessly wait
for the day my inner volcano would erupt.

pigtails, tutus, ballet flats
diet at age of six
running, skipping, jumping jacks
did she know what beauty meant?

long brown hair, pretty eyes
gym class, age of ten
stretching, push-ups, two more laps
would she learn what beauty meant?

a boy, a kiss, a little more
life at young 15
sweet talk, smiles, and lots of force
of course she knew what beauty meant

silence, hate, weakness, lies
only sweet 16
binging, purging, swears and cuts
she'd never get what beauty meant.

The feeling of being alone,
Of feeling worthless.

Those days you just don't feel like getting out of bed,
And going to work,
Because what's the point?

You think you are crazy.
But it's okay, really.

Most have this condition,
Including me.

It's called Depression.

Woke up this morning
and went out on the street
sniff a few flowers
and went back to sleep
yes my head was cloudy
but the sky was blue
and I did'nt feel lonely til i thought of you.