A day will come when
gravity will have been long forgotten
and whatever exists will no longer have started with star dust.
and whatever mark you convinced yourself you made
will have to fade.
A day when the spirals in the spiral galaxies start spiraling out of control
because they will have forgotten what held them together.
Gravity will be long forgotten one day.
Star dust to stars
stars to chaos.
chaos to empty.
Gravity
long forgotten.

days   words   things  
eyes   just   away  
day   heart   stars   time   years   forget   people  
know   sky   ones   really   worlds  
realize   better  
need   way  
cloud   tell   thoughts   try   look   wanted  
like   thought   star   trying  
sit  
big   hand   different   head  
remember   want  
feet   sidewalk  
lips   wish   cracks   feeling   closer  
break   little   right  
leave    think    broken    fingers    
leaves    place    used    expectations    stepping    holy   sun  
ruth    face    smile  
stepped    old    
lost    wishes    hear    end    
simpler    real    makes    heavy
    change   doesn't  
plans    reach    ants    faster    
touch    
watch    
make    gravity    long    forgotten    
difficult    sound  
light    breathe    okay    holding
  meant    mean    tips    
inside    beautiful    white    hours    
person    sad

Here on Earth
a shrine may be considered holy
there are things we cannot touch
cannot touch, because we are not allowed.
But to have been created by man,
they must have had contact at some point
and that's where the stars come in
because nobody has touched a star
nobody has seen a star face to face
the atmosphere is a veil shielding us from the eternal infinities
just out side our reach.
We cannot touch the stars
but there is no priest, no holy man telling us so.
Nature forbids us
and that makes stars
the most holy.

Power lines
weaving in and out of the foliage
the sky
a cool gray with red tinge
preparing for navy blue
late enough for the streetlights to cast a glow
too early for them to cast a shadow.
The leaves
dark against the slate sky
colors faint
not indistinguishable
branches dancing forwards and backwards
as the air inhales and exhales.
Navy sky
colors all the same
the lamps cast a shadow.

The fluidity of a dancer
and the the eyes of a distant star
the seamstress in the knee length hoop skirt
weaved through the galaxies
leaving a path of shining
thread.

The waves of the ocean
do not compare to the tides in my heart
Gravity is so forceful
that I see stars grow closer
and then slide away
in a fraction
of a heartbeat.
I can move stars closer to my heart
but you stay put.
Perhaps we're from different worlds
different stars.

A princess in disguise
kept her mask on too long
and became the woman on the sidelines
she was never meant to be

The tips of my lips curve toward the stars
but the words on the tip of my tongue
and too heavy to bend upwards

So that's where they remain
at the end of a thought but never
floating to your ear
because I can't let you hear
the things I've been holding, saving
for a time that I realize now
will never come.

Because they were heavy before
but now the dust they've collected
has nearly tripled their weight
and though they try to break away toward the sun
it is a futile to try to break through
years
of bottling up.

There are things that will never be said
some things are impossible to understand
with or without words
and we must let them be.

The difference
is that the moments I hold close
are ones you let go seconds after they happened
and that's all the more reason
to hold them tighter, closer.

I look back on things and smile
but now I realize
that you don't even look back
at all.

I was silent when I really should have spoken up
and i said words I really didn't mean.
I really didn't mean.

I lied to avoid complications
to keep things simple.
but simple has more layers than complicated ever will.

I miss when I was afraid of eye contact
not wishing for it.
when I ran away
instead of chased
because I'm running after something
that's just a bit
faster.

And I know it's real
because you've given me butterflies
three times.

Circle round the flames.
Watch as they warm us all in a dance of light and energy
and not much else.
Join me in a campfire song that makes us smile
and not much else.
Sit in entranced silence, sit
and not much else.
This is all we need, the fire
and not much else.

I have gotten goosebumps many times but up until now I thought I was just getting cold.

I thought the shiver down my spine was ice, not fire.

And I thought the feeling in my stomach was something less beautiful than butterflies.

Up until now, I didn't realize what wonder smelled like. Smoke.

And until I found that goosebumps came as a side-affect of awe I used to grab the nearest blanket to warm up when I really had a flame inside me, not a snowstorm.

this place really ***** your soul out
it leaves you so empty that there is no room for more empty inside.
it leaves you broken down on the side of the road with a broken down cell phone and a broken down heart.
it kicks you in the gut and expects you to continue breathing just like nothing happened
it throws people and places and words and numbers at you and expects you to somehow make sense of the nonsensical string of thoughts tossed together in a stew of confusion and hair-pulling-graying stress.
it gives you a person who leaves you the same way it left you, empty without context or direction
it's magnetic
it causes the compass in your heart to spin wildly out of control leaving you lost and alone
i shows you jealousy and envokes hatred that you never knew existed
but you realize it's not the place at all
it's the people
and you.
you.

it feels as though i've waited seven lifetimes
for this day to come
this day when i could think anything
do
almost
anything
but expectations are only things we tell to ourselves
and I know better than anyone
that I cannot trust what i tell myself.
expectations are never true
and it may be better now
but it's not healed
i don't know if it ever will be.

There will be days.
There will be days when the person you most want to see is right in front of you.
There will be days when that person is miles away.
There will be days when you accomplish little more than a quick nap.
There will be days when you fail.
There will be days when you succeed.
There will be days when you need people, and that's okay. Because one of these day's they'll need you too. Just wait.
There will be days when the very uttering of their name will send shivers down your bones and blood to your cheeks and the tips of your lips will curve up without you even trying.
There will be days when the tips of your lips refuse to curl up even though you are trying very hard.
There will be days when you don't want to leave the comforting pillow that finally fits your head just as you have to leave.
There will be days when you have to leave.
There will be days when you have to leave behind.
There will be days when you have to forget. try. to forget.
There will be days when you try. to forget. but are reminder over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. there will be nothing you can say. it's okay, I've been there, too.  
There will be days when the feeling is just out of reach and taunts your desperately clawing fingers like a grass seed.
There will be days when you forget about the grass seed.
There will be days when it floats in between your fingers and lands square in the palm of your hand and those are the days you need to day thank you and remember remember. try. to remember.
There will be days when it's difficult to breathe.
There will be days when breathing seems to be the only thing your broken body remembers how to do.
breathe. it's what you're built for. breathe.

It gets sad here.

We wallow in our inconveniences and forget
to celebrate the clouds and the birds and the sun.

It's hard to forget things so instead of trying to wash away
the sad,
-because it won't go away-
create better
memories
cancel out the unhappy
and replace it with bliss.

Back then nothing truly mattered
because we were sitting on cloud nine
years old
and stepping on a sidewalk crack could break an elephant's back
but you stepped anyway
because from way up there on your cloud
elephants were like ants
and we stepped on those too
we were big fans of stepping on things
we stepped on twigs on mud on trees on dirt on carpet on sidewalk cracks on ants
we were too busy stepping to realize that soon
we would become the ones being stepped on.
Because at three feet tall we were so busy playing with the world at out feet
we didn't realize there were worlds worlds above us.
because we were sitting on cloud nine years old
stepping on ants and sidewalk cracks
never bothering
to look  up.

You tell me to
let go
let go
let go
but
my fingers are paralyzed, clenched, holding
onto something I'm still trying to wrap my head around
something I'm still struggling to forgive myself for
so, tell me
how do I release my grip
if my brain has forgotten
how to
let go.

I miss the days
when big books
were used for pressing flowers
and I love reading
but things used to be simpler
there was a time when I didn't need and author or a poet
to tell me about places beyond
reality
I was already
there
and I don't know
how to find my way back.

living on two hours
of "sleep"
groggy doesn't even begin
to describe
the disorientation.
how do i walk
It's midnight!
not noon!
Someone get me a latte.

Driving along an empty street
at 6pm you
reach the beach.
The sun is halfway set.
You sit there and watch it sink into the ocean.
you think it's gone but then you remember
something you read a long time ago.
You run up to the lifeguard tower
and climb to the top.
When you get there, you can see
a sliver of the sun, setting again.

Nothing is ever gone if you remember
to change your perspective.

Sometimes
things are so overwhelmingly beautiful
that feeling  of being swept off your shoes envelops your being
lost in the moment, mind whirring and a little tingly
and you wish you could be there
for the first time
a thousand times.
But you only see something for the first time once
and by definition, a moment
doesn't last forever.
So make most of your moments
ones you wish you could
relive.

sidewalk cracks and jumping jacks
exploring our backyards
overalls and backpacks
making houses out of cards

when we fell down we stood right up
because six-year-olds can't die
so when Ruth wasn't at assembly
we never wondered why

we figured she was sick
had a fever or a cough
she'd be better really quick
she just needed some time off

But Ruth never showed up that year
or the year after that
They told us that she moved away
We knew that wasn't fact

Because Tommy saw something
a familiar satin bow
right under the climbing tree
where young Ruth used to go.

The tallest branch must have
been at least twenty feet high
and to a six-year old that's
high enough to try to fly

But flying's meant for angels
not for children on a bough
and Ruth's no longer on that tree
no
she's
much higher
now.

I am too often consumed by a cold blue light
  illuminating my blank stare
  and expressionless face.

The world in front of my eyes draws me in
  but does not exist.
  We see it, but it's in our heads.

I spend too many hours
  checking tiny inconsequential dots
  of light.

We laugh as our cats and dogs chase a red spot around the room
  but are we
  any better?

I have a picture of you
plastered on the inside of my eyelids
I thought I would see you
whenever I closed my eyes
But it's just really
dark.

In a dream I drove a motorcycle
through a hoop ablaze with
dandelions
and as I passed through
each exploded in a cloud
of white seeds
drifting around me
I extended my hand
they danced this way
and that
as I swung my fingers through
the cloud
i wondered how many wishes
I could ask for
But a seed landed
kissing
the tip of my nose
This was far too wonderful for wishes
The white wisp tickled my face
awake.



I saw a little girl today
holding a pure white sphere bloom
she closed her eyes as she blew, wishing.
She missed
the show.

Dandelion braids
     watermelon picnics
bees in our bandanas
      and toes in the mud

bicycles at dusk
sailing down paths
built for fireflies

out feet have grime
            because who
             wears shoes
in the summertime

I had so many plans
I thought it would all
be so different
the people would look different
the sky would shine bluer
I would be more experienced
and less curious
but it all remains the same
things come and go
but it's all the same
I have different plans and expectations
that will only be met if I let them
and in three years
the doormat will have four more holes
the windows will collect more dust
and my hair might be longer
but the mat and the windows and I will be the same
we are.
we just are.
and at the end of the day
there's nothing I can ask for
and nothing I can do.

you see,
my poetry
is written by hand.
and my hand
is an extension of my heart. because I can find no other way to express how it
continues to beat day after day without fail than to move my pencil to the same rhythm
and no
I don't always keep perfect time
but neither does my
   heart.

We are so intent on figuring out
what we are going to be
that we forget to focus on what we are
nothing can change in the future
if it doesn't change now.
And it's okay to have goals
but don't think of them as plans
think of them as a command, a calling
and start immediately
the first few steps are always the most difficult
it
will
be
difficult
that's right
but once you find your footing, the path will start to look more level
so when someone asks you where you want to be
in however many years
tell them what they want to hear
but know
that you're already on your way.

My head is encased
in a web
of thoughts
that thrash with cloven tongues and silver lips
at my battered brain.
clearing my head is futile
for every time
i attempt to break free
the web of whispered rumination
tightens its grip.

I never liked biology.
Not because it was boring.
It was fascinating.
But everyday I was reminded
that I am nothing more than
layered tissue.
And I have so little control
over how wide my eyes open
My thoughts are nothing more than microscopic zaps
criss-crossing tirelessly around in my head
I can't stop
hearing and
seeing and
feeling
and
I'll never
see my own heart.
I liked it better
when life was magical.

for her birthday
she requested a rose
when all she truly hoped for
was a sunny day
but after years of clouds
a rose seemed
simpler.

We sit at desks slaving for hours over made up numbers and too-long phone calls while
worlds
worlds
worlds away
a star is born
and I’m talking about a real star
because we call people who can sing on key “stars” but nothing can shine as bright
as the massive, beautiful fires in the sky.