What has happened to my heart?
Where do I begin, where do I start?
The holes I used to see are gone,
What have you done to my eyes?
Where you’ve taken all the lies?
The holes I used to see are gone
I am sure I’ve not arrived,
But my life’s hid with you on high,
And the holes I used to feel are gone,
The holes I used to see are gone

When you hold me in your arms,
I weep,
Tears from what I can’t articulate
The illness of a dying earth,
The fight against the demons,
The out of tune voices,
Take their toll on me,
And build,
Like mud upon my clothes,
Rest and cry,
In the safety of your lap,
The only place,
Where I am clean.

Poems have a funny feeling, especially before they start,
A weakness, a pull, a longing in the heart,
To give words to something that is just a part,
Of greater unknown,
Poems have a funny feeling, like tears trying to get out,
The steam of life’s hottest moments, gathering at the spout,
Their release is like a shout,
Of laughter,
And when the tears, and cries, and giggles,
Have all run out of ink,
Only sleepiness remains, and feeling,
That knowing is a little closer.

Such a tiny, soft pink thing,
Cradled in hands of gold,
Aching and yearning to be united,
To him which gave it birth,
Life so fragile in two palms,
Wispy breath and quiet sighs,

I spin,
Like a skater,
Faster,
Pulling my arms closer to my body,
Then pushing them out,
To slow,
In,
Out,
Like cascading melody,
And weave across the ice,

Without gravity, would I even want to fly?

I look for you here
something in me longs to find myself
hidden in someone's sorrowful words
or adoring lines
I look for a mirror here
as my eyes wait for your name
I want to see myself in blazing colors
Poems from the eyes of another
But selfish never gives me happy
and I stare at my own too much

You must think I feel fine without you
I hate to disappoint you

I have a sleeping giant in my heart
Did you know?
It slumbers in its chains

Wet feet,
Passing acorn caps,
And small leaves,
Black underneath,
Pitterpats on my umbrella,
There's a whush in the air around me

I dusted off some dreams
and shot them in the sky
I was short on shooting stars
and starved for higher light
My box of fire seems empty now
my ride is low on fuel
But I will tread on comet trails
and drink the milk of moons

I sit straightly for a moment,
slouch back in my seat
As the dripping of my energy
reaches midday portions

the dragging of my feet
becomes the least of my worries
its not the pain that’s unbearable
but the many useless potions
the slowly ripping poisons
my mouth must keep desiring

I sigh
trying to remember
the truths I chose so randomly
to write off as tacit lies
in my moneyless estate
it was easier
to think I could live without them
but now I see I’ve only died

the fire of life
crackles ever fiercely
But hope snuggles in next to me
as I finally let my walls burn
hope is the only barrier I need
between me and life's flames
She's warm and smells like Christmas

Lately I’ve been feeling overconfident,
Of something never promised me,
Devoting too much time,
To visions of constructed reality,
I largely want to forget, and leave it for a time,
And maybe I am, I feel good with a man,
But something is never far from mind,
And I’m afraid of what might happen,
It’s silly to hold on for so long to what will never be mine

The horror,
of a tired mind,
When walls,
Once adequate in strength,
Become like paper dams,
and the dark waters,
Of my weakest moments,
come seeping through,
Poison the innocent
descents of a rainy day,
Perhaps Hezekiah,
had a mind much more tired than I.

A happy five year old
I picked up my crayons and gave it my best
so proud of a little thing
but my friends said
“You colored outside the lines!”
Pouting I brought it to my mother
after school was over and I was home
“Yes, Eva, you colored outside the lines”
What lines?!
All I had seen was my own rainbow of color
placed exactly as I liked it

The last thing
he says he misses
showing me truth
and watching me change
well, maybe not change
He didn't see me change enough  
So when I feel I miss him
and His chocolate cake of kisses
Remind me . . .
what he misses is changing me
But what he MISSED was Me

The pure innocence of it all . . .
the friendly hugs
the genuine smiles
their faces lighting up at the sight of the other
She imagined that they might fall asleep side by side on hard floor, content that the other slept a couple inches away
She felt their energy expand when they both were in the house, even in separate rooms their confidence and joy was greater because of their love for the other
The pure innocence of it all . . .
filled her with jealous dread

Art,
Is a sheer, filmy thing,
And a fleeting mist,
Its understanding is uncatchable,
Like a cloud rolling in the sky,
Is it a fancy,
A snapshot,
A product of hard work,
Or a sudden breath of beauty,
From a mouth opened out of habit?
Can we rightly dub,
A simple decoration,
With the same three letters,
That must define,
That which arouses to a screaming pitch,
Emotions?
Is it the possible response,
To an object,
That enables it to be named,
Art?
A wondrous thing,
That forms words out of colors,
And colors out of words,
And music out of smells,
And music into movement,
And enables one to feel again,
And understand what had not yet been grasped?
I propose, the word may be too broadly used,
But I am clueless,
As to where to draw the line.
One cannot draw it at physical response,
For the wisest man cannot separate the mind, soul, or body,
Into useful parts,
Nor can one draw it at ugliness,
For unless it is truly a cruelty,
Some person shall maintain it is fine.

My hopes flew quickly to bright flowers
strong and sweet
they gazed for hours
But now that strength has waned

My joy in flurried work
though first relieved in stress less space
soon borderlined on Shirk

This depressed state
is common now
when we mix our ink with paper
we sit in pools of swirling grey
and lose our whirlwind shaper

our hearts have fallen
through the rainbow air
and droop on dreary sills
our eyes are sick and only stare
at mirrors showing ills

Our psyches oh so wonderful
do quite forget their power
and don't remember
the angeled bower
on which they did alight

When winged insects
leave the sky
when butterflies do land
they do not ask their maker why
but trust this rest upon his hand

They eat and drink
they sleep and wait
They wait for Gentle eye to wink
And when they fly
don't wonder why
or call their leave too late

When I was very young
and you were very, very young
We both fresh
overwhelmed
staring at our guardian stars
with a growing envy of life

When I was young
and you were very, very young
my face just turning to look inside me
yours
on the fights up above
our souls aghast at the clashes of brilliance

When I was very young
and you were very, very young
we played in the midnight sand
my skin warmed by a morning tan
your mind just beginning to dawn

When I was young
and you were very, very young
I took your hand to lead you along
down a road I too was led upon

May my mind
not find
silly things to be upset about
When before me stretches out
The height and depth
The length and breadth
Of Love
Taller than the longest rod
that claws it's way to space
It reaches past it to the land of light
And shoots it back
to pierce my heart
May my hands
not find
a day of joyful work without
When God never ceases to give out
every golden opportunity
each flake is precious and on time

I feel beat up and bruised,
              But fed with the choicest of foods,
              I feel empty and cursed,
While loved beyond imagining,
Nothing sweet to bring to my lips or brighten my eyes,
              But immeasurable joy brings smiles to my face,
              And laughter in my throat to replace,
             The bitter swallows of pain,
              Nothing will ever again look so bleak,
              For now I see the light will always come,
              To show the contours of love, and colors to brighten the whitest of scars

I came back, from the great fight,
With my heart in a mess,
My mind began to crumble,
And my strength was ebbing away,
When did I forget the victories already won?
Cover up the truth, see the conquering line receding?
When did the spots reduce my vision?
And my dreams lose their bright contrastings?
I have found, that victories in life, are not like plaques on a wall,
But wrestling belts, for you must always fight to keep them.

“There you stood, in all your glory,
Feet apart”, begun the story,
“Flashing blade in hand you took,
Winsome smile, witty hook.
At the quick turn of trained wrist,
(there was no chance that you had missed)
The blade sunk deep inside a heart,
That had never known a dart,
Nor been under lock and key.”

Your own affection was in a box, within a box, within a box
Each one closed with many locks.
When my wound began to sting, I still declared you to be king
But water in my throat did rise, and once’n  even reached my eyes
I shut my teeth and looked elsewhere, but none I found to give a care.
No one measured up to you, a stark contrast like gold and blue,
Even your long drawn-out sigh, your walk, your talk, friendly goodbye.
I tried to pull shank out myself, put my love upon a shelf
The blade was wet from dripping life, and slipped back in, that horrid knife!
After times of intense pain, I would swear: Not again!
And slowly start to draw out lance, to go a week with a chance,
But on Saturday I’d often fall, hear my name as you would call,
I would begin to wish again, for a very special friend.
Where do you keep the Key? Why won’t you give it to me?
A tool of gold, my fingers hold, softly place it in the hole
And as my nails dazzle in your glow, I turn the lock and find your soul.

WHILST I beheld the neck o’ th’ dove,
I spied and read these words.
‘This pretty dye
Which takes your eye,
Is not at all the bird’s.         5
The dusky raven might
Have with these colours pleased your sight,
Had God but chose so to ordain above;’
This label wore the dove.

Whilst I admired the nightingale,         10
These notes she warbled o’er.
‘No melody
Indeed have I,
Admire me then no more:
God has it in His choice         15
To give the owl, or me, this voice;
’Tis He, ’tis He that makes me tell my tale;’
This sang the nightingale.

I smelt and praised the fragrant rose,
Blushing, thus answer’d she.         20
‘The praise you gave,
The scent I have,
Do not belong to me;
This harmless odour, none
But only God indeed does own;         25
To be His keepers, my poor leaves He chose;’
And thus replied the rose.

I took the honey from the bee,
On th’ bag these words were seen.
‘More sweet than this         30
Perchance nought is,
Yet gall it might have been:
If God it should so please,
He could still make it such with ease;
And as well gall to honey change can He;’         35
This learnt I of the bee.

I touch’d and liked the down o’ th’ swan;
But felt these words there writ.
‘Bristles, thorns, here
I soon should bear,         40
Did God ordain but it;
If my down to thy touch
Seem soft and smooth, God made it such;
Give more, or take all this away, He can;’
This was I taught by th’ swan.         45

All creatures, then, confess to God
That th’ owe Him all, but I.
My senses find
True, that my mind
Would still, oft does, deny.         50
Hence, Pride! out of my soul!
O’er it thou shalt no more control;
I’ll learn this lesson, and escape the rod:
I, too, have all from God.

Should I let you go when the going gets tough,
When the distance makes nothing, seem like enough
When even our talking, talking seems rough,
Should I let you go, even though,
I once thought the world of you?

Should I let you go when our friendship seems rotten,
When I think all it was, was fluff and cotton,
When I come to feel it best forgotten?
Should I let you go, based on this feeling,
That I may come to regret?

Should I let you go when there’s nothing left to talk of,
When I’ve been persuaded out of love,
When I no longer think “us” fits like a glove,
Should I let you go, because the memories almost hurt,
And I want to get on with my life?

Should I forsake you to this cold world,
Where we rarely find people to love us?

If I were to compare you to food
you would be ice cream
I can't eat ice cream
wild orange ice cream
or passion fruit and mango
exotic and forbidden

If I were to compare you to music
it would be violin Brahms
you look like Joshua Bell, you know
The sweetest music I've heard,
though you certainly don't calm me

If I were to compare you to flora,
You would be orange and purple roses
excitement and enchantment
love at first sight

If I were to compare my affections to reality
they would only inhabit a book
an uninspired novel
*which I should put down right away

If you think I’m on fire
don’t worry
The good will stay
Only the bad is burned away

It’s part of everyone’s life, suffering
But most people don’t enjoy it like we do
most of them don’t find in it great trees
But we do
We make those great sad oaks into timbers
We stand them up in the snow
and build our homes with them
The scent of victory is burning pine
Our fire
Our suffering

Why do I want to live away from boys?
Something strong in me has told me,
You cannot be fully woman in front of man,
They won’t understand, they won’t accept,
They will reject,
Only in front of women will you be free,
With only the exception of God, for he made me,
When in front of man, I must imitate man in certain ways,
Must promote some womanly ways, and hide others,
It is not that I think these are bad, You just don’t understand,
And were taught to shun.
But even I know that some men, exceptionally taught by their mothers,
Are not afraid of Woman.

Writing a poem is like making a necklace,
Bead by bead, pattern on pattern,
Complex or simple, colorful or monochromatic,
The good ones take talent, but chance luck can help.
This one for that friend, that one for this day,
Good words like fancy baubles,
Well placed they make the string,
Wrong placed and they ruin it.
Some come easy, some are long thought out

Your words can’t hurt me,
Your words don’t pierce,
An already calloused soul,
Your words are understood,
Their negativity was noted,
But they couldn’t put another bruise on a heart that is raw,
For my own thoughts now,
Do more damage  than yours ever did,
Push, pull, crack,
Another piece floats by,
As I speak this lie,
Again,
I ripped off my nerve receptors,
And though my limbs may still take a beating,
I swear I’m numb to your work,
But their content is quiet fuel for my fire,
And hatred is strong in this one,
Turned towards self,
Not strength, not better than outward hate,  
Nothing short of perfect love can save me now,
Only deepest thoughts about me can erase my list of error,
Can, inside my rotten soulkeeper,
Place a rainbow of affection,
And bring happiness to an ever worried soul.

“A messiah for the rest.
A terror for your own”

In vain, in vain, in vain,
I cry, is a worry here,
But a tear to the eye,
In vain, in vain, in vain,
You said, is a worry here,
But a pain in the head,
For my blessing are kept,
In a box up there,
No one will rob them,
They will not tear,

You bestow at the proper time,
It’s not my place to beg and whine,
Or think that I must push on through,
Without what I need, and not with you,

In vain, in vain, in vain,
You said, is a worry here,
But a blessing bled,
Not for not was my blood shed.

I said my desire was like a tree
its Autumn come upon me