If there was a definite answer,
where would it be?
Where haven’t I looked?
I've turned over every aspect of my life,
dug up every buried worry
and all the skeletons of people I decided not to be.
I've kissed the hellos goodbye
and embraced the farewells,
hoping and praying that when people leave and take parts of me with them,
they’ll leave me a little closer
to the center of myself.
I want to find an answer because I don’t know what to do anymore;
I don’t know where to look,
who to hold onto,
which end of the earth to go to
to reach the dream I haven’t decided on yet.
I want to find an answer so I can know that sadness isn't the answer-
sadness.
The feeling that cups me in the palm of its hand,
the feeling that I don’t mind feeling
but that I want to mind feeling.
It isn't good for me,
but how do I know what it is?
How am I supposed to find the answer that’s been buried under fields of indecision?
How am I expected to plow through to the center of my sadness
and take away a solution, and then convince myself
that it is what I need?
How do I find a definite answer
that’s hidden in the shifting sand dunes
of infinity?

If you know,
please tell me.

Poetry
is the painting of words
on a page;
it is the wishes of
people who crave everything,
not through the voice of greed,
but the people who want to experience
life from a different perspective;
it is life blended into love
during the process of being dreamed.

the quiet bliss that comes with not
knowing what to make of something:


because of everything good,
everything bad,


it’s impossible to separate
or differentiate,


so you don’t;
you just sit quietly


and quietly
you let them be,


as they have let
you be;


for so many years
and so many worries


have come and passed,
and now they are the past-


what do you make of that?
what can you make of that?


there is good and bad
in everything.

I am at a birthday party. It must be my party because I am blowing out candles. I am huffing and puffing, but the flames will not go out. The candles multiply. Their flames and shadows cover the cake, then the table, then the room. The fire refuses to extinguish. The candles grow longer and taller, and they peer down at me as though I am some kind of an insect. Their fiery wigs ignite all the furniture in the room, and I am surrounded.

Tonight, I am a flower. I have a lion’s mane constructed of pink petals. I whisper and whistle in the wind; the sky is endless, as is my spirit. I lie alone in a field of only me. The rest is air, and for the first time in my small life, I can breathe without worrying about breathing on somebody. The grass tickles my leafy feet. I am the prettiest flower in the meadow. I am the only one.

I am in a room filled with poisonous snakes. They do not know of my intrusion. As long as I remain still, they will not notice me. The silent serpents decorate my feet with leftover scales as they slither over me. I stop myself from trembling, for my life is on the line. I stare straight ahead, ignoring the warm yet shiver-inducing string of life that slinks up my back. There is a candle in the room. One of the snakes scoots a little too close, and the candle tips. I am frozen to a whole new degree. The flame begins to spread, and the snakes become uneasy. There is no escape. There is no way out. I still cannot move, for the snakes will attack me. I cannot not move, however, for the fire will swallow me whole. I must choose which I would rather be consumed by. The snakes are everywhere. The fire is everywhere.

I am at the North Pole. I assume this because though I cannot see Santa Claus, I see ice everywhere I look. Thick walls of ice mirror me with care, as though my reflection is the most important thing to them. They let their cool acceptance gently settle over me like a blanket. I sigh, and my breath freezes in midair; it falls to the ground, and suddenly I am a co-creator of the beauty I see. I turn in awe, and out of the corner of my eye I think I see a lit match in another delicate reflection. I whirl around, but there is no flame to be seen. I wonder what I saw.

I am back in the field in my flowery form. I look up at the stars that are each trying to shine brighter than their companions; the light of each inspires another. They seem to go on forever. Tonight seems different; I feel lonely. Though I am still the prettiest flower, I feel for the first time that it is unfair; I am also the ugliest. Suddenly a roar hits my ears, but it is no sound from my lion’s-maned self. I turn and see the grass that once covered the meadow being ****** up into a vacuum of fire. The fire is a true wildfire; it is a rebellious child. It stretches to the sky and across the horizon, but still it is not satisfied. I witness it live while it dies, burning bright, but not realizing that it is burning itself. It comes towards me. I cannot move—I am a flower.

I am in a white room that goes on forever. The ceiling is not high, but the walls never cease. In the room are the people I love. They stand in a line that matches the infinity wall, and they hold hands. They smile at me with their mouths, but their eyes do not change. This makes me uneasy. Without their smiling,
dedicated eyes, they seem to be different people. I decide to leave it be and go to hug everyone. Suddenly I am crying. It feels like a goodbye.

I am fire. I am not in a fire, nor am I on fire, but I am fire. The fire has trapped me; it has taken me under its sizzling wing, and I fear my soul is melting. The fire is in me, and I am being consumed from the inside, and I cannot escape, for when I drink water it only boils. I see my beloveds again. This time no part of them smiles; they run in fear before I can ask them for help. I run after them, begging them with cries, fiery cries that always sound angry even though I am not. I run…I am running too fast, too fast, and I catch up with my family, but I cannot stop, and before I know it I have burned them to a crisp, but I did not mean to; I would never mean to, but suddenly they are gone. I try to stop running; I try to trip myself, skid, anything to protect my loved ones, but I am no longer in control. I am no longer the fire; the fire has become me. It takes my body and my memories without my permission and uses them against me, and I cannot stop it. I cannot stop myself. I burn and melt and fry my cherished people, and I cannot help but cry. I have consumed myself. I am fire. Fire is me.
Everyone is gone.
I am

The tree branches
were cold and bony;
they clawed at you
and hissed
as you walked past.
But when he was there,
the skeleton branches supported the sky;
their hisses became
whispers that shared
the whole world
with you.
They were fragile and delicate,
yet they could hold the hopes
of millions,
all wrapped around them
like a spiderweb.
When he was there
the branches loved,
but when he was
away they were bitter;
they sensed there was
something
amiss.

I write because
I can.
After all, why not love what you can do
because you can do it
while you can do it?
Why should I wait?

I write because
my thoughts can’t be contained in only my head,
they beg to stretch their legs
and run around the hilly,
wild world.
I write because nothing I can do
will ever contain those thoughts;
they skip laps around my life
and cartwheel around
my soul.

I write because
though the letters are yours
and the words are yours,
they speak for me.

I write because
it is a way of untangling my thoughts,
my thoughts that are like a slippery, knotted string--
they will come loose with a tug
on the end of the line,
but it has to be a powerful tug,
a magnetic force of inspiration.

I write because
it is a way to live
without leaving the house and
a way to let love loose
while it grows.

I don’t write.
Writing writes me.

He got in the car
and left.
He’d come back;
she knew he always came back,
and she knew it was for the best…
she thought she knew that, anyway.
But it always felt like it
would be the last time
she saw him.
“I love you,” he’d said.
“I love you.”
“He loves me,” she thought.
“He’s got to.”
She let the words
echo in her head
for days,
weeks,
in case a day came
when they didn't anymore.