Sporadic. This girl
tells me she's going to live til she's
a hundred and thirty-three.
"I'm going to see history unfold
before my very eyes until
it's flat and spread enough,
it can't hold any more secrets."
Sporadic. This girl
tells me she'll find out history's secrets,
like they were more comparable
to her misplaced magic markers
than to the equality we so craved.
And the funny thing is that
she actually, truly, honestly believes that she can—
The other funny thing is that
I think I'm starting to believe her
and now, I've decided I'm telling her—
and she's walking towards me,
bright eyes and smiling lips
replaced by bitter lines and hues.
She's walking towards me—Sporadic.
This girl tells me that she's sorry
because she just got a call from her doctor—
Sporadic. This girl tells me
that she won't live past twenty-three.

i never have liked uppercase i's
i know it's absolutely stupid
but they always make me feel more important than others
like i'm always saying I, I, I.

see even that was weird
way too many eyes
so i spend half my days, proofreading my lines
to make sure that i'm exactly the same size
as everyone else

when i first met you it absolutely blew me away
to find someone else who lowers their eyes
i'm serious, it's amazing to find someone who wastes as much time as yourself
hitting backspace, and
cursing auto-correct for not allowing this behavior

but after a while i noticed you stopped with the i's
maybe it was around the time **** got weird
maybe it was a fad; or i have some absurd superstition
but it's cool
You always were the bigger person, anyway.

Intense kisses
In the morning
Hot cuddles
In the evening
That is a good
Reason for
Living

Just the feel
Of it all
Makes you
So much more
Comfortable

It's the sensation
Of someone
Tracing
Love hearts
On your skin
The ecstasy
When you're
In the heaven
Of which is
Pure passion
The kind of feeling
Like no other
That gives healing
Makes you crave
That bliss
Forever

you would've been 59 today
I wish I could have seen your face
it's so sad you passed away
quite long ago
but your memory
it lives on
through me
through your poetry
you were a true artist
I admire that
you were
and always
will be
a talent

I live a poet’s life in an anonymous plane
Unseen by those considered normal,
Unheard by those deemed sane.
The only proof of my existence
Dangerous knives of poetry in lines on paper
An alias moves the pen in my hand
That scribbles stinging, bitter words
About love, death and the atrocities of man

I am anonymous
Even my name is not my own
My thoughts are scrawled wickedly with intent on paper
For the masses to observe
At a distance my carnivorous demanding audience must remain
From physical contact with these dull creatures
I gladly refrain
Retreating behind a mask of stone
Beneath it a face that bears lines of great sadness
A frozen sculpture of a heart for many years entombed

So it is and shall always be
Truly my words are all you will ever see
Closing off the door to reality
With the stroke of a pen
To my invisible life I hastily return
I am anonymous

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

darkness under light
defines the contours of space
shadow deepens shine