This poem is for
You
You who spoke in words that
sprouted flowers of hope

And I picked each one

Like a disrespectful little girl
walking through the gardens of her
various neighbors on the way
home from school

And I inhaled that scent perfumes
only dream of producing

You didn’t stop
So neither did I

And then you did.

This poem is for
You
You who I thought would never be
a poem

But you are now
For even flowers of hope
wilt

This poem is for
You
You who taught me more than 13
years of public schooling
You who was no different
You who left

I hate you
I do.
I hate that you convinced me to
listen
Convinced me to
grow
I hate that I have to avoid my
voicemail box
And that you can’t respond
I hate you






I don’t.

You used to
Love
Me
But now you’re
Gone

You have left me with
A journal, some
Memories,
An empty bed,
And a couple of
heart pieces

I have since
Closed the journal
Blocked out the memories
And
Glued back the heart

As for the bed?
I will fill
with desperation
with empty feelings
And boys that try to do me right

None of them can do me like
You did.

A big **** you for
He
who left his
memories
sprinkled like
Ashes
Tossed into the ocean on a
brisk, fall day
Throughout my life
Under my  covers,
On my skin,
In my scent,
On my doorstep,
On every person that meant something to you,
when I meant something to you

I do not hate you
I couldn’t possibly
I simply hate the power you have to possess me to whine after all this
time
Time
TIME
Like your tapping foot when you got restless,
Your cracking thumb when you got comfortable

One day
When all is passed and I have found a semblance of
Happiness

You will remember

She rises
& looks at her clock
******
****** either that it’s too late and She will be rushing (again)
Or ****** that it’s too early
(for only those in the military need to wake up at this god awful time, right?)
She rips free from the forceful grasp of her lumpy mattress
& walks across the dusty floors of her perfect one room apartment
She doesn’t need breakfast
(perhaps a gulp of orange juice straight from the bottle)
but the view from her 7th story high window
is enough to feed her for the next 80 years
Or maybe more
The
City that
NEVER
Sleeps
Or the city that never lets her sleep at 7 am
but She forgives it
because each morning She is fed by the
honking taxis
& shouting people
& airplanes overhead
because everyone wants to visit here
but She? She lives here

The next bit of her day depends on
drive
& talent
& passion
& a little bit of luck
She could be late for work
a waitress
& campaign staffer (for the latest liberal agenda)
Or
She could be simultaneously
trying to find that sheet music (again)
picking out an outfit (unique but not revealing)
practicing that dance move (again)
& reading the scenes aloud (again)
Or (if drive & talent & passion & luck have done their job)
She’s spending a little bit more time at that window
thanking the City for the inspiration
smiling (maybe bigger than usual)
calling her family to ask when they’ll be coming out
reassuring her mom she doesn’t need any money (but taking it anyway)
(for now)
dressing for rehearsal
heart-pounding
Debut

Either way (whether  drive  &  talent & passion & luck have done their job or not)
She covers up that small tattoo She got in her (now) younger years
pulls up that hair that has gone from brown, to red, to blonde, to brown, and through the cycle again
covers up the spots on her face
swipes on mascara
(lipstick if She’s feeling up to it)
and thanks whoever or whatever that She looks good for her age

But aside from physicality (and more important than physicality)
She thanks whoever or whatever that She has loved
& been loved
& continues to love until all that is left is the stories
& the playbills
& the people She met
& She loved each one
more than the stage
more than her apartment
more than the view
more than her bed

But perhaps not quite as much as the
drive
& talent
& passion
& luck
that got her there in the first place

Lost
In seas of
age and
self-doubt

As I watch newcomers
Drink to a new year of
Love
Work
Play
Knowing tonight will be one not
remembered by morning

As I watch middle-aged couples drunkenly
spill over
Each
Other
Slur words like
"Iloveyou"
Slop kisses onto
*******
Cheeks
Lips
Not knowing which is which but knowing
that lips belong on such places  

As I watch old folks taking their toast of
champagne
Bundled up to face the cold on brittle
bones
Thinking quietly to themselves if this
New
Year
Will be their
Last

As my head ***** with itself slowly
Tortures
With wishes of being those who I observe
Tricking
Myself
That satisfaction lies in the
Future

This
Year
Will be another one
Closer
To satisfaction.