why don't you sit down with me
and watch the day go by?
I never did it before they
sent me to this place.

it is not as scary
as you think.
in fact, it is so quiet
even its ghosts are leaving.
the youngest ones at least.
the oldest are too tired to dream
of a better place, and thus
have decided to stay,
and every night
we talk about the past,
of how things used to be.

they tell great stories
for they stop telling lies
after their lives, long lives.
so many memories,
it would take more than eternity
to revisit each and every of them
try to understand what it means
and forget all of the what-if's.

if letting go is so difficult for the dead,
imagine how it is like for the living.

and so I have learned to forgive
myself, and those around me -
loved ones or strangers.
though I wish I could tell them
to take it easy, love life,
love love, appreciate,
do all the things that make them happy.
they will have all the time in the world
to ponder sadness, to be resentful,
to weep, to scream
afterwards.

so, young one, in your busy life,
once in a while,
give yourself a little time
to feel the angle of the winds,
know the depth of your living sky,
catch the color of the raindrops,
learn that every tree is different from one another
and you could recognize each of them
like the faces you have known.

and every once in a while,
close your eyes,
and open up your soul
to feel the grand stillness of time
that lasts forever in a single kiss,
to be caressed
by the fragile tenderness
of love.

these are some of the things
I have learned from the living
and from the dead.
you shall listen
to both, or either,
but not those who are dead
while they are still breathing.
they do not know where to go,
and thus, cannot give you directions.
if they try, you will either be hurt with a lie,
or a desperate attempt they make to feel alive
through you.

thank you for visiting.
if you ever come back,
bring me some stories
about the sea, for all of us here
long to go there, but we can only
recall and imagine it.
I long to feel the water
all around me.
its depth and vastness
are the dream we have
about a place where we can
completely
let go.

He sat and he waited until he had faded.
He lived in a family of six,
five of which
were successful in all their endeavors.
The sixth one wasn’t so clever.

So he thought he would automatically be the same
as his three wondrous brothers that lived without shame,
but sooner than soon, he found he was not
and like a balloon bound by fate to pop,
he realized his life was a million to one shot.

So he thought about ways to spite his history
but nothing he conjured ended up happily.
He thought about this and thought about that,
he couldn’t think standing, so sighing he sat.

Woe! How cruel can this world be!
What’s in a life if you can not be free?
There is no shame in a rich life that’s poor,
but there is something to be said about a king that asks for more.
I am neither the poor nor the king.
I’m just another poet slowly dying.

I’m sad, no direction, and tied in a knot.
Blind and insensitive, stuck between tick and tock.
One hundred percent there, yet I’m already gone.
I’m close to the edge, which I be a-strollin’ along.
I believe in you, in Him, and even in me,
I’m not a fighter, you’re not there, and He is a mystery.

Sure I love to sing, to play and to dance,
but it’s to imagine ever getting the chance.
The way I feel is that I can not be
whatever I wasn’t yet, I know the absurdity.

When will you love me, and say it’s okay?
When will you say it’s over and take the pain?
I’m sitting here patient deciding what’s fair,
I’ve been waiting for no one but you, and you’re not there.

I take great pride in people around me
though I know I did nothing
but watch them impress magnificently.
I comfort myself, that you soon will come,
but my hope’s running thin
yet I’ll never be done

Hit me one time!
Hit me again!
I won’t stop standing,
I’m addicted to pain.

Addicted to life
Addicted to you
Addicted to knife
Addicted to truth

So I say I’m standing neutrally, not a single intent.
Can’t you see the subtle serenity? Speak not of he sent.

I can’t say what I mean.
I get in my way.
My senses are not keen
and I wait for the day.

The day! Bright day! Joyous day!
He IS coming, and he’s coming to stay
I’m not naïve
This is what I believe.

here for a reason uncertain, a reason well hidden,
I wonder but I do not doubt him.
That is treason.
That is forbidden.

Music, a wondrous thing, perfect in its true form
sails me through the lightning, the darkness, the storm.
Do not belittle the storm for it is meant to terrify.
Do not riddle the snake for it is meant to deceive,
Not to clarify.

Where are the lonely?
Let them come in.
Where are the evildoers?
Forgive them their sin.

I am young, simple and fragile.
I am not strong, I am simply agile.

So yes I’m confused, but I know my fate.
How will I get there?
I sit here and wait.

I need to get some                                   sleep. But what
                                                  
                                                       I


really need right                                           now is to
                                                  
           ­                                          have


one more cigarette                                      because you've
                                                  
                                                       had


your way this time.                                          (You  always have your
way with everything).                                     But enough is
                                                  
           ­                                             *enough.

I am not a poet
Because I don't have the
Vast vocabulary of most
And I can't tell you the
Difference
Between haikus and acrostics  
And I don't know
How many stanzas make up
A "good write"

I am not a poet
Because I'm a psychopath
And I sip my coffee
From the wrong side of the mug
And I open my banana
Upside-down
And I tangle my heart
Into knots on purpose
Despite it's resilience

I am not a poet
No, I'd like to think
That I'm the poem
But I'm not that either
I'm more of a chaperon
For life's chaos
I watch over the panic attacks
And I coddle the over doses

No, no,
I am not a poet
How can I be?
When I've been tipping
And tapping
My shoes in the hall
Just waiting for doomsday
I've just been hoping
Praying
For this to be simple
For the sky to come crashing down
Because then I can say
That the bills
The rent
The schooling
The mainstream *******
Was all meaningless

I am not a poet
Because I can't make a good
Rhyme
And I'm not as clever
As I used to be

I am not a poet
Because I often succumb to the
******* of others' words
Because I know that
They said it better
Than I ever could

And I am not a poet
Because I'd rather quote
Those before me
Than find strength in my own
Broken syllables

I am not a poet
But I am the raw
And deep
Bleeding sore on the side
Of your mouth
That you can't help but chew at
That you could never possibly
Ignore

I'm not a poet
Because these words
Really belong
To the wind
And my pulse rests
In the Earth's crust
And my emotions
Connect in the sky
And my fingertips
Are made from stardust

No,
I am not a poet


*Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.
—Lawrence M. Krauss

Take the trip or fail to see,
All the colors life can be.
You'll be sure that you are another,
But you'll be unsure if you is me.

Collapse into this world of color.
See what your senses really can do.
If you tell your mind to do it,
Your eyes will filter the reds and the blues.
If you can wrap your mind around it,
The introspection can show you the truth.
Your world will seem it no longer exists,
While it's neatly tucked inside of your fist.

So for those of you who think you can take her.
Eat this religious piece of paper.
You'll smell colors you never thought your skin could see
You'll be something you never thought you could be.
But what you'll remember forever and ever,
Is the wildly insane **** you will see.

I'm a little, little teapot, full of secrets.
I'm a girl, all wet eyed and this morning's
careful ministrations are now my
vengeful war paint - dark eyes
like I haven't slept in days.

Slept till noon in a blue T shirt - it's
so much harder to wake up to an empty bed
even with all my sheets exactly where they belong
Me-*******-ticulous, perfect, all mine, stellar.

I'm a normal girl, a girl, a girl,
a twenty-something brunette who
just doesn't know how to turn off
her ****-off attitude. I'm all flesh
and bone and I just spent 30 minutes
ODing on my own adrenaline,
martyring myself secretly like some
glorified, glamourous ******
trying to stick it to the world that
hasn't done me any favors!
But I don't really believe that.

These days I'm dancing like I fight:
all tight fists and closed, wet eyes.
I'm rage and *** and I'm ****** as ****
and you don't know anything about me.

I'm a girl, a ****** *****, a
twenty-something brunette with
no excuses. I'm sad and I'm angry
and I'm so sick of having absolutely
no reasons why.