What sickens me is the thought of another person touching you in the same places that I do - or did
Did I lose or did I win? I lost you & I'm praying I wont spend another cold winter alone with only a notebook & a pen

If what we had wasn't real then I must have been right, I've been sleepwalking through this desolate wasteland I call a life
Was I wrong or was I right? Is this an illusion or was our relationship a lie? I need to know you aren't giving up on us to be able to sleep at night

Its 2:46 a.m. & I can't get ahold of you, I can't make things right

Art painted, art confined, art denied,
The skin of the canvas cages and congeals the art,
Colours more plumbed than the peacock of paradise,
Yet trapped and tossed about in stormy framed emotions.

In the end it all bleeds away,
The paint dries, decays, and dies,
Faint leaky lines leave behind faded memories,
Life’s canvas rusts on the ground in solemn silence.

Hark now! Unhinge your ears!

Hear now music flowing from elegant veins,
Listen to how the strings pulse and weave the notes,
Watch how the music flies free and completely unconfined,
Those butterfly melodies entwine and in the air flutter and swirl.

Their dance is the ecstasy of a nightingale’s song,
They sprinkle and circle round and round, up and down,
The music of the cello is love’s supple spine, smooth and sensual,
Hear it, inhale it, caress it, sway with it, and be at ease and free with it.

The first time someone broke my heart
was the day I cried for 2 hours straight
to my "boy best friend"
shocked into silence by my tears,
he repeated "it'll be okay"
over and over again
I didn't believe him.

And my first taste of abandonment
were very much like burns while
playing with fire
but instead of raw, throbbing fingers
the pain came in the form of
tears, its taste salty from
pent up resentment and hurt
it scarred me
and left me weary of those who approached

The first time I broke someone's heart,
we were approaching our sixth month
the brief exchanges of apologies and goodbyes
left me short of breathe
and i might not have 'loved' him
but the dull, throbbing ache 'goodbyes' left me
made me wonder otherwise

and the first time I found out what it meant to let go
it left me with a chill that would not go away, not
even if i stood under the blazing sun,
hours on ends
and when tears failed me,
I turned to shiny blades and pain
that dulled the throbbing of my heart
Promising myself, I would never find another
I holed myself up against anyone that stood too close,
masking the vulnerability that was crystal clear to everyone else

And the first time I fell in love
It was with a boy whose silence spoke louder than his words ever could
and though his past was tear-stained and broken,
he was not.

And my first taste of real love
did not give me butterflies in my stomach
but the silent strength to
heal the damage I afflicted to myself after
every tear,
every pain,
every heartbreak.
I could begin to love myself again.

And yes, I know
"Happy endings" only happen in childrens' book
and we will find hurt and anguish in every corner
we expect to find bliss and happiness
as if mocking our efforts of contentment
but each time i'm close to tears,
I'll remember how perfectly our hands fit,
and I guess that will be enough,
for me, at least

{d.c}

if girls are so good at painting their faces
i wish we could turn them loose on a real canvas
see what they really mean
when they paint those black lines
every girl is a painter
she needs a real canvas
da vinci is lurking behind those sultry lashes
trapped in the eyeliner-barbed wire
a concentration camp of cover-up
clipping their own wings
willingly
with eyelash curlers -
every girl is a painter.
i wonder what faces they would paint
if they stopped focusing on their own face
i wonder if they would still have clown-smiles
and slanted eyes

i am looking for the next van gogh
but he has camouflaged himself
and is dying in front of an empty mirror.

these glasses on my face don't
show you who i am anymore than
the color of my hair
or the size jeans i wear
the tattoos on my body
or what i do for a hobby
these freckles on my face
or the size of my waist
one size does not fit all
let this be your wake up call

i saw you picking out fruit
red apples, i recall.
my least favorite.
i glance up.
that sympathetic, useless smile
crosses your face
same as all the others,
good enough
to be picked up
but put back on the shelf
left
for someone else.