More than anything
I hope that you're content
in this time to come
I hope that
the sun will illuminate your vices
and that the moon still reflects upon
your mystery with a stare that threads silver
and I hope that
no person ever
shatters that ego
because it is what you're built upon
I wish you growth and realization
so I am glad you left then
if it means you're content

I am this marble statue
wait
take me to the Pantheon
let me there and give me breath
movement like the fluid aqueducts.
Bathe with me when no one's looking--
we'll escape those gladiators
but
gladiators had no choice either
you see
They were just people stripped of their pale, blue skin,
and now they're entertainers
battling the gout, aurora mirth
of a Leo
a fierce, unforgiving Leo--
and then the aqueducts run dry.
So you can't bathe with me
everybody's watching now
Save me from this
crackling
boiling
blistering
mask;
I don't want to be a statue
*Fleeing from the pantheon

I want to stop and think for a moment
why should I know what the bottom of this glass resembles
Must be a big girl now

Sitting on this rusty balcony
I teeter on the median of self-contempt
and why I latch onto men and women of any kind
so I am the ******* to those who are in the moment
I crave,
yearn for someone better.
Bemymuseyou
Bemymuseworld
I am just a blonde, ribbon-haired child you see
I am not the artist
sitting on a rust balcony
No I'm the child
Not the muse
not the Mother
I am not an author
creator
No I am a child.

I've always ever wanted a muse
with pickled eyes the color of
the dank, polluted snow that haunts the crevices of my city,
Brooklyn.
I've only ever yearned to touch
something bent, but not broken --
like the ligament of your bone.
With what breath do I hold from you,
but fog, smog , sour pears, and a hint of lague
You are the grim beauty to walk the Victorian era
Dashing, lashing --
Oscar Wilde couldn't even spout a witty retort.
Pink lips that incise like the curve of a scalpel
sent Hannibal on his way to salvation
and a voice like the cursive handwriting I could never perfect
Morose, macabre -- these are the terms to coincide with obsession.
In any way,
you have always ever been my muse.

Sweet laughter
still sickens
me.

Would you still speak with me?
Lay still darling
at my expense I give to you
n o t h i n g.

With what fresh linen do you lay,
darling,
that man gives at no expense
to you
e v e r y thing.

In a coffee-house
not far from where the sun gifted me with my mother
I realize that everyone looks like something out of the best noir film;
The brew sitting next to my state of the art technology
leaves a taste on my tongue that I long to rid;
A couple sits ,happy,
aloof to what God has warned them;
Oh,
I'm not the only one who has been darkened.

His bark shall be tempest-tossed.
Showmeshowme.
Here I have a
drum within.
Adrumadrum!
Hand in hand
of the Sea and land
to make
peace!

Will you
grace
the
mischief that
I lay unto
the Devil,
my executioner?

I want to hold her.
Sometimes I wish to curve myself onto every inch of her wild body.
We share a skin-ship,
and it is because of this that tension arises.
We casually breed an exotic essence,
a colorful blend of warm, unbidden hues.
From an outside perspective it cannot, will not be understood.
We have both succeeded in the task of draining each other's sanity;
She because I am needy,
(Constantly pulling and pushing);
And I because she is stubborn --
She is like the iron strings of a freshly bounded Acoustic guitar.
To have such a person as my muse,
I cannot tell whether I am blessed,
or if I am hexed beyond all compare.
It is not that I am in love with her,
or her golden-flecked vermilion tresses.
I simply, implicitly feel the need to explore her.
It is I who implores her bold ambiguity,
whilst she stands bare to my artistry.

Today I kissed a girl,
she smelled of pine trees--
I clearly remember,
this girl,
she burns like a fire-pit in my mind.
The one who wears,
and bears indie-fashion,
and empty promises to her boy-friend.
A lovely girl with untamed hair that falls to the small of her back,
today I kissed her;
Today I confused her;
To-day I surprised her;
Today I mortified her.
Delusion.

It is only plausible that,
at your most ******,
you deliver me pain --
pain through your writings,
your touching,
your *******.
pain is pleasure,
after all.

Sitting alone in one's room in the dead of night has the ability to provoke much unhindered thought.
If I could think to dance,
there would be fire ablaze in my eyes;
Something unnerving would occur,
and I would let go of discretion.
I would speak what I feel then,
like the fresh spring water that ever flows through my thought-process.
My toes would sink deeply into the Earth's foundation,
and she would welcome me happily,
her soil helping to fuel me.
I would root myself there,
and remain.
Among the many as I am,
a gray and faceless physical being --
the perceptive colors that I bear are of the mind.

Regret.
Regret.
What a solemn summer.

Many can fear the JOVIAL influences,
                         That shake and move their    {b o d i e s}   in such ways --
                                                            it is inexplicable.
The groove--
as well as the FuNCTioN forces our beings into motion;
Might as w(E)ll describe it as    
   U            
P    
   H    
    O
        R
       I
  C.

Conner is a lovely man.
He laces his wants through me with fine, pale features.
I cannot say what I would like of him--
nor what he would like of me.
Conner is a strange man,
with an accent that is achieved through a deep rumble in the back of the throat --
He is prideful of his home country,
which causes some sort of influence over me.
Conner is a man full of wit.
His expressions are comical,
words are snaky --
and have the tendency to make me blush.
Conner surely is not a stranger to admirers.

Sure.
I have those friends.
The friends that I share common interests with --
the friends that I laugh, and joke with;
Then I have her.
She and I,
we fight,
to speak the very least,
often.
Although,
our bond is unbreakable.
We feel the same,
yet we could not be more different.
We both strive for color, opinions, a voice, a reason --
Yet, we strive for it differently.
She and I,
we both love -in our own ways- until the very tendrils of our hearts dry,
YET, we are both selfish beyond our own comprehension.
We enjoy to live,
yet we hate ourselves in such forms that we are living in paradox.
She and I,
we endure the same --
YET, we endure the same differently.
It is inexplicable,
our bond.
I do not love her romantically, sexually, nor do I love her in familial, or Platonic ways --
Our blood runs that deeply.
I just love her.
Shavod *** Woodson.

You.
I apologize for all of the strive I have forced you to endure.
Sometimes you can be envious --
always wanting what you are not meant to achieve.
Still,
you are splendid with your light.
I thank you for refusing to die out on me.
You are what keeps my eccentricity on a radiant standard.
Thank you.
I amend you for always striving for what is best;
Competition is difficult,
but you seize to slow in your movement.
Thank-you for being fueled by compassion.
Whether it be by compassion for the Earth;
the human race;
Or even by that very naturally sweet scent that is repugnant from your skin.
Thank you.
I adore you for wanting coffee with your sugar,
for actually being able to appreciate the female body without feeling ashamed.
You are realistic,
goal-oriented.
Although sometimes you can be influenced negatively by those around you
-which inevitably results in your being a paradox-,
Thank-you.
You are beautiful.
I am absolutely beautiful.

It is not so difficult (sadly I've come to discover),
to embrace darkness --
it has been prescribed to those individuals who dare to harm me.
In the end,
they lack remorse.
It is only I who can take blame for such ignorant thoughts.
Ramblings are for the beautiful,
precision is for the wise --
segregation can exist in any form possible.

It is only in the state of galvanization,
do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth.
I have a father who stresses to me this:
"Happiness is elusive."
This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth,
only to be spat back out.
"Happiness is elusive."
It is cause for concern,
really.
I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it,
to believe him.
Happiness is achieved through discovery.
I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty).
I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could.
In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood,
if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all;
I do recall that I had a sister.
Her features must have been youthful,
from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable.
If it were not so ambiguous,
I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day.
The past is a scary thing.
I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me,
for what I have cultivated is sour.
Recently a good friend accused me of this:
"Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person."
Her notion both confused and throttled me,
and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone:
"That is o.k., you're only human after all."
This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality,
leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance.
Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion;
And in my youth I am impervious.

It is not so painful as to experience physical grief --
I wonder what it is like to feel.
Numbness is an aphrodisiac to the ones who experience far to much --
to me it is but the metaphorical hell.
So many people that pass me by,
on hectic evenings in the city;
They are happy--
I smile.
Envy reigns and I act like an adult.

I was asked something today,
and at most I could only leave the subject at an indifferent tone.
It left me to question the tolerance of my own tradition.
"What is happiness, what is truth?"
Imagine getting inquired with something so philosophic,
at such a time of disarray.
Happiness-- such an abused term.
Every human is in pursuit of it,
it is natural,
it is what we strive for.
Yet, being faced with the blunt, simple question;
"What is happiness?",
I stumble.
"What is truth?",
the ability to think-- existence.
What is thought?
It is everything that we (as humans in nature) prosper in.

It is of my very genuine longing,
that you might hold me at odd angles;
Inspiring, penetrating angles,
and help my breathing -or lack thereof- to be elongated.
If my moaning cannot express my uppermost gratitude,
then I am afraid, sir,
that we are both at detrimental loss.
It is funny,
I'm not very seductive at all!
I am short,
with an awkward physical disposition.
However, I control you.
It is magnificent, really.
I will moan,
and in your name I will find significance,
a reason for listening to Frank Sinatra;
lighting incense;
Becoming better.
All I have to give,
is my body-- your lust.
Moaning, penetrating angles, and lust.

What a beautiful girl to marry so young,
to waste so young.
She resorts to pencil thin features,
embracing that which is better.
Something stirs inside which she cannot comprehend,
something eventually will give.
There are things that she would never tell her husband,
the thoughts that disconcert her moral.
Something is about to give.
"Oh, Henry Miller!",
She bellows with a sigh,
what a terrifying man to break her.
"Henry Miller, Henry Miller!"
This will be what wakes her.
With bare teachings, he shook her perceptions.
He taught her of dominating aggression.
Anais Nin,
a lovely French flower,
with fair features;
She withholds power to ****** any man or women to their very knees,
"May I slip into someone more comfortable?"

It hurts to understand the notion,
you are free in ever motion.
I find fault in disillusion,
yet I fall,
and fall again.
Success is a driving,
flustering factor;
My life is hell without it.
Your ordeal I cannot reach,
nor analyze,
nor evaluate.
So I fall,
and fall again.
I'm not a lover anymore,
fighting is my mantra.
The energy I prosper in is of perpetual defense,
because of what I've done to myself.
Being a poet I should understand,
that I have problems as well as everyone else.
Yet I can't but help to let apathy,
possess me again,
and again.

This is me,
not being a fan of techno.
This is me,
fawning over a man who is.
This is I,
having a fear of not being able to live.
This is me,
speaking when there is nothing to be said.
So I speak,
speak,
and speak.
I know that silence is terrifying.
This is me,
holding up a sign bluntly advocating insecurities.
This is me,
knowing that beauty is gratifying.
This is me,
questioning that last stanza.

A girl who can no longer speak of herself in a better light is lost.
She is so sore,
and afraid.
A loss of whimsical outlook has drowned out her ability to breath.
A corruption of lungs.

Just to feel a better enlightenment,
I will scream.
A transgression can burst into it's own odd combustion,
It must leave sometime.
I must let go sometime.
A girl can walk by me;
An exchange of compliments,
which will mean nothing in two hours.
We as humans surely must know what kind of burden routine prospers in.
Please don't call it pessimistic!
Rather, claim it pragmatic.
I like optimism,
I do!
Believe me or not,
you will discover,
little conversations mean nothing.
My, oh , my.
Is it not possible to laugh?
What a monotone expression you carry (while looking into the mirror).
Are you afraid of connections?
Is it what the world has given you,
that makes you hurt so very badly?
I glanced at you with that man the other day,
the one who causes a more true smile to form on the curves of your face.
Did he cause this?
A man with vacuous essence,
is terrifying;
Is he not?
The people you surround yourself with,
are shallow.

Because you taught me to,
I will push the boundaries of subjection.
Twine me around the broken glass,
while beating the **** out of my mental clarity.
You laugh,
because you've endured the same.
We sit in coffee shops,
ever calm and ever vital.
You argue with me like there is some imaginary competition within the area.
What have you to lose from my contentment?
What have you to gain from being stubborn?
When you love me,
you love me angrily,
"Passionately."
It is all I take not bellow from the scorches and whips of your intellect.
Is it I who exposed you to such inevitable hard-ship?
Still as I silently ponder these notions,
accusations.
I will sit and grin with you,
and talk about your ****** philosophies;
Nodding in agreement with your thesis like the little dependent girl that you've created me to be.
You taught me.

Why is that when I catch your eye,
you quickly look away?
Do you lack the closure,
the confidence?
It pushes me,
to wonder
about
you.

I was left as an open book,
to the entrance of your very sorry state of consciousness.
The blame feels much better when directed at somebody else.
I danced with you by pizzerias,
over the Autumn when nothing was to fear.
Rose-tinted lenses fueled my perceptions.
During my most severed days,
I still feel your chestnut stare;
Lingering over me,
unbeknownst to my own.
It is fair to claim that you made my as I am.
Sadly on my own,
pizzerias have no definite significance.
I am just ******* dazed,
and angry.

I'm the sort of indifferent kind of girl;
Searching the nooks and crannies of my own association.
Many and many times I am silenced,
pulled in and out of dull colors.
These colors,
so bland.
They quiet my logic.
Am I what I make myself out to be?
Japanese proverbs speak as my mask,
they are what people perceive me to be.
Wise words,
demolished feelings,
demolished memories.
Pessimism rules my subconscious,
am I not eager?
Can I type any more of my arguments without them being heard?
What more needs to be said,
dictated?
So,
I walk and stalk like a branded faceless being.
Do you lack the feeling,
the feeling I've been missing?
I'm much more mature than I had anticipated a few years ago.
I want to go home.

A child with fine features,
blue eyes,
learns from teachers--
deep below our perceptive thought,
our Einstein philosophies,
and artsy intellectualism.
She multiplies the rose bushes,
across the Italian culture,
so romantic,
so fair.
breathing only to discover a Shakespearean air,
about herself.
She knows more than most,
sitting just above the state of human consciousness.
Reality is reigned by being just.
If one could know,
if the lion tamed,
of cruel desires,
and citrus teas.
We would object,
justification.
What beauty lay below a rose bush?
Nothing, muck.

Mild blisters,
create their own balm.
Everything heals.
Everything is as exactly as it is meant to be.
You are fearful,
I understand that.
Why though?
You have blisters,
this is obvious.
Blisters create their own balm,
and as a fellow human-being,
I love you.  
You will heal.
Don't let insecurities discern you.
Everyone doubts what gives them strength.
Breath.
Take it in.
Your life,
you have one.
Live it.

I woke up this morning,
and looked out of my window;
A sky filled with crystallized oceanic hues created a heavenly glow upon all that I have ever learned.
I am unshakable.

Small Amber bursts of idealism,
spark a chain reaction among the masses.
Structured tradition moving in the right direction,
right behind them,
never to show again.
Discovery!

You wrecked my right to say I indulge in purity,
and to be honest you're the blackest wolf I've ever seen,
scare me 'till I shake.
Bruise the perfect little heart that my mommy cultivated for me.
I'll bruise that perfect little logic of yours.
You're a dark, dark man;
I've never felt so inclined,
to write of my impure thoughts;
To commit such a sanguine ******,
of the mind.
It hurts for a moment,
until I feel your hips against mine,
and fantasies ensue.
They are not of me,
or the thought of me,
rather the satisfaction of an act.
Legal matters become blinded when they see such intensity,
bear me the intensity,
in your gaze that is so ******* within itself.
In between my thighs is where all my dreams are realized,
because of you;
All I have,
is regret.

I am an earthy creature,
rooted firmly below the oaks of my surreal forest.
My persona is that of something calmer,
serene,
beckoning.
The water pumps quickly through my veins,
sporting my impulse,
emotion,
polarity.
This water causes the passion to burn in my eyes,
pay no mind,
to the intimidating fire,
that blazes beneath,
the soothing green.
It is but only natural to discuss what is believed,
and what isn't.
I don't spit fire,
but it dances within me none the less.
The wind blows lightly,
through my copper ringlets,
so refreshing;
an odd feeling, indeed!
Sometimes I forget to breath,
the gift of life.

Leave me to be young,
to shrivel.
A white gardenia always must wither,
and shrivel;
Die.
Leave me to marry,
to love.
A heart can pump alone I assure you,
leave me to revoke my own sins.
A lost cause you take me,
and your silence will break me.
Your pesticides will **** off anything natural I possess!
A White Gardenia must shrivel and,
die.
Success is what disillusions me,
in pretense I fight.
A war on egos, envy and such!
It is all I know in my mechanical set-up,
is to follow the world in it's redundant tide.
A White Gardenia can bloom,
it can shrivel,
wither.
A White Gardenia always must die.

These lingering days contribute to the weariness I've recently cultivated.
Doubt has become my main driving force--
I am tired.
Much more cannot be explained in such a place,
when all has been lost and I teeter in surreal dazes.
It is a thick black fog that captures me every time;
And where would I take refuge without it?
Compare me to the Serpent,
you can.
You are obviously misguided.
It was the hand of a harsh man who sculpted me into this kind of form--
not love itself.
So don't blame her,
and don't label me.
She is tired,
just as I am tired.
'A neutral conclusion to a binding tale;
You could say.
Exhausted lady love has had enough.

Glances speak louder,
than any word you've said to me,
meaningful farewells.

I woke up this morning with the initiative to fall into the arms of a nervous lover;
The ideal lover.
I had the ambitions to succeed,
and I almost did.
I almost discovered that new light within me.
I had my coffee,
dark as usual;
Pretending I was drinking it with you.
I completed my homework,
because you know how much of a procrastinator I can be.
Actually, you don't.
Most would not be able to accept me at my worst,
for I have not yet learned to accept myself.
Some say I am a natural born intellect,
and I wish it were true.
I yearn for it to be true.
Placebos can be pretty convincing, you know?
Like what I form of myself when I am around you,
the kind of clay that can be formed and reformed into whatever you please.
I would gladly be anything you please.
When it comes matters of the heart,
I can be fairly childish.
You understand,
because you can be to.
You're nervous around me,
and I love that about you.
It is cute.
Yes, cute.
Intensity is not a necessity.
So, time is on our hands.
All we have is a looking glass,
darkened coffee and a looking glass.

Don't make me fearful,
I am just a little girl.
Say it is "Time for me to grow up." Eh?
I am just a little girl.
Don't rip me apart.
'My fault for pushing myself into the game in the first place,
it was not my right.
You're dangerous.
I am a writer,
you are the kind of person that makes me lucky to be one;
'still I'm not ready,
God please don't take me.
There are enough tainted lovers in this world,
we don't need to add to the mix.

You lock yourself within the cathedral,
if only to notice the angel again.
Her lovely luminescence 'dark as the Russian night;
Scandalous as a Venetian romance.
If you could kiss  each feather, brush away small detail,
you would discover prime, purity.
Your crystallized kiss is what she searches for;
Even as the day has the routine of making love to the night.
The day will merge with the night,
as you know.
Be wary my fellow, my colleague, my love!
An angel is only as pure as the cathedral that it fell into.
You will wither with her sadism, dissipate.
She will continue on.

Leave me to revel.
I reside in the moment I tread the dark, lonesome sea that is composed of you.
So lovely, so lethargic.
Venturing for something more,
why can I discover nothing more within you?
What an empty man.
You are such a kind man.
My focal point, you know?
Where inside you can I find excitement, anticipation?
Is it possible that your feelings take refuge in the hollow of your cheeks,
or the curve of your soft, taunting smile.
How about the laugh in your eyes, your stare?
The stare that you give me because I know what makes you laugh.
Can I find the reality there?
Is it the fact that it is I who does not deserve the privilege of experiencing all of you?

I have written about you before,
your beauty leaves me wordless.
Not breathless,
no.
You increase my adrenaline to unhealthy heights.
I feel so guilty,
fantasizing your touch.
When it belongs to her.
She did nothing,
as a matter of fact she deserves you.
You do not deserve her, however.
Why, though.
You are nothing but a deceiver.
A walking facade.
Quit trying to find yourself in women that cannot bear the emotional maturity!
We cannot fix you.
Oh, but do you turn me on.
Stay here.
You and your wordless beauty, essence.
I'm not to blame.
I am innocent,
you are the one who ruined me.

Here are my lyrics,
I speak them from impulse.
Here is my impulse,
it stems from my fear.
Here is my criticism,
I hand it out furiously.
Please take what I have,
and take it in vain.
Hear my soul out,
as I turn away in caution.
I will leave you dry,
will you **** me dry?
Disdain is my fortune,
lavished with riches.
Ignorance disguised as gold!

My vocabulary dwindles,
intellectualism loses it's prime.
I can escape from that.
It becomes less and less of a priority to write.
This dissipating passion  is to be considered a blessing.
Why?
Writing is not a priority.
It is a need,
to keep a pen in your bag, and a journal accompanying it;
just in case you may remember your own silenced wisdom.
It is a lust,
to gain experience, to improve,
and to slowly cultivate your essence through the English language.
It is a skill,
that can either be possessed through pragmatism or vision,
through lack of reality or structure.
It is what gives you life,
it is what corrodes everything that you presently stand for.
Never though,
will writing be considered a priority.