intention never went far
down the road at the
end but then again it
never did in its youth either
through the years its only
idea of excitement was the
thought of maybe being
young again in the future

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

but not the crying kind of sad
the kind of laying in bed sad
where minutes turn into hours
and hours turn into days
that i haven't gotten out of bed
because there's no point
and no purpose
maybe in a different world
i'd be getting out of bed for you
but because of mistakes
and bad decisions
and calling it quits
far too early
im here
laying in bed
alone
and im sorry

Do you know the world unseen?
The one that every human being
Takes for granted every day
As they go about their work or play

For I speak of things like morning mist
The flower in the breeze that twists
The way some clouds evaporate
Or that flake of rust on the old front gate
The struggling mum who needs a rest
The logo on her child’s vest
The smile that means “I noticed you”
A kiss that’s meant for no one’s view

For all these things are here to see
Yet focussed minds just cannot be
Sensitive to all that’s there
For overload would bring to bear
Such cacophony of life’s rich vein
That most just choose to see the same.

The exceptions, friends, are me and you
Who take the time, like poets do.


RD©2014

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As you've ever been.
Re-engage your safety.
Holster your stress.
Your car is a gun.
Your key the trigger.

Two ton hollow-points flying
Down every street in the world; lead
In search of potential tissue.

The father witnessed his own heart
-Shape and weight of a five-year-old-
Break into molecules midplay
On the parking lot
Under a blind reverse.
Perhaps the groceries blocked her view.
Clip emptied in a split second.
Your car is a gun.
Your car is a gun, a child's tunnel vision
As narrow as the barrel of a .22.
Aim carefully, away from people.
Squeeze, don't pull. You hold lives with
Your steering wheel. Destinies under your feet.
Every turn you make has room for tragedy.
Your car is a gun.
A hot, smoking gun.

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As they are to put something so
Small in the ground
And return with heavy unhealable hearts
To a house
That won't see them smile
For another five.

These eyes of mine
Have seen
Beyond the imaginary lines of being,

A broken heart mend over the written word shared by those whose wisdom has surpassed time,

Beautiful sunsets painted over gray lines by poets who know that you'll never know the true meaning of joy without a little pain paving the way.

I have wandered in the caves of those who dare to etch their souls on paper, and shun their thoughts to wondering eyes,

To give meaning to the lives of many, direction to the gypsey, and a mender for the torn,

Walked more than a mile in shoes of so many to find the quintessence of broken glasses, the epitome of troubled souls, and the essence of being,

Beautiful melodies that soothe the soul through the ears of a deaf man,

The rhythm of a heart in love that sickens the soul, invades the thoughts and leaves every inch of the body longing,

A memory of a love so precious, unforgettable that it's fragrance lingers still from a distant memory,

And when all is lost and plundered,
Your words are like a thread that sews patch after patch across my torn silhouette


It's a pleasure
To have read so many inspiring, beautiful and heartfelt poetry in here.