The red eyes
And snot stained
Sleeves

The shudders of
Emotional agony

The cement stones
Standing in rows

The tears of strangers
Without homes

The raggedy man
With years of grey growth
Holding a sign
So you know
That he needs help

The elderly man
Spotted skin
Wrinkling
While people
Keep forgetting him

The climate changed
Species displaced
And people running away
To find a safe place

Me, begging you to see
The suffering of humanity
While you just ignore me

His bitterness fed the storm
Unsure and forgotten
She sought shelter amongst the clouds
Trapped in his image

Picturesque essence of used to be
Lost gypsy girl
Flowers blossom upon your lips
Listen to the whispers

Painted toes
Foot prints upon the sun
Leave your lipmark for tomorrow
Where the dew lingers

Crash upon an emerald sea
Summer sweet down pour
Cloud wanderer
The wind remembers

Briary trap of content
Wildfire soul
To find direction

There's more to a woman than her body and curves.  At the core of her brain is a thunderstorm that rains down wisdom, knowledge, and understanding flooding the soul of man with love in it's truest form.
There's more to a woman than her physical beauty.  She's a living breathing ocean with waves of compassion leaping from the depths.  Sweeping man up in her current allowing him to swim in her essences that is woman.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.

A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.

Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.

All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.

Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.

Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck

When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...

So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.

Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.

Help me to stand in times of storms.

Help me to stand in the times of Pain.

Help me to stand in times of struggles.

Christ help me to always stand firm.

Help me to stand with others in Prayer.

Help me Lord, to stand up for you here.

Help me to stand in times of struggle.

Help me O God, to stand , even in times.

Where everyone else here fall down Jesus.

she numbs the smell of cigarettes
with bleach and tears
and she tells me that she doesn't know why
she cries at night
but i know that there's something
that hides behind the light
as her shaking hand reaches out
to flip the switch
i know that she is scared
i ask her what she is thinking
and her lips freeze in an o
and she tells me she's uncomfortable
and that her thoughts are made of nightmares
and codeine mixed with seroquel
and blood on her favorite t-shirt
and she's too scared to tell me
why
her lips are chapped and peeling
her eyes are screaming
so loud that
i can hear it ringing in my ears
and she asks if i can hear them singing too

anjelica says she likes to play games
and she tells me we can have fun
but where is the fun
when she's always just about to run
she asks me to dance
dance
and i realize she never had any chance
to save herself
and my mind says how i should have saved her
i see her in my dreams
and i don't see the cherry tree
along the cobblestone walkway anymore
rather i see dead roses
scattered across a dirt path
and the roses are painted with blood

anjelica screams my name
she asks if i still write about her
she asks if i still love her
she begs to know if i still know her
she tells me she stopped loving me
she tells me she never knew herself
she tells me she tears my poetry because it is
too real
and i realize my dear anjelica
is not
real

she is a thorn i would
bury into my own chest
so that she is near my heart
she smells like cigarettes and bleach
there are tears that stain her cheeks
and mascara that runs down her face

what's wrong with me
i hear her say
and i would love
to tell her that
she is perfection
in the form of a mortal
but i say nothing
and she says nothing
and i can feel the silence
weighing on my head
and it weighs her hair back into curls
and my mind shouts
to know why we do
nothing
i beg the world for something
she tells me she is not alive
and i realize once again
she is not real
anjelica will forever fill my poetry
but anjelica does not
speak

she does not speak to me
unless she needs
more air to breathe
she does not speak to me
she looks at my eyes
with her burning eyes
and we create a new language
that neither of us know
she says she is okay
and she is not okay
she is broken like a lamp
that has fallen off a building that touches the sky
she is not real
anjelica exists only
in my poetry
but she consumes my thoughts
with her charred lungs.