She's sitting out in the courtyard
Holding a cigarette between her slim fingers
Chipped red nail polish
Shaking hands
Reading the worn out pages
Of her dog eared book
Concentrating on each page
Like her life depends on it
And it does
She clings to the words trying
Not to hold on to her broken heart
Tucking her hair behind her ear
She turns to the next page
Shaking, taking another draw
Such pain in the way she sits
Curled in upon herself
Blocking out the world
No one approaches her
She sits alone

You
Why did you do it
Kiss me and tell me you like me
Spend so much time with me
Make me like you so much
Just to turn around
And I don't know
I saw her
The girl you called babe
I would have waited
As long as you needed
Been here as your friend
Regardless of what happened
But I feel betrayed
You said you liked me
But called her babe
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT

We’ve been here before: confusions high, tempers boiling, and the pressing question of whether or not we should be here.
I watch as your knuckles start to turn white as your grasp on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter.
“I hate it. You gotta quit saying that” slips out of your mouth in a hushed tone.
I turn my body and look the other way trying to avoid your stare but still feeling every ounce of its
intensity on my back. Exhaling through my mouth
I gather the courage to face you again.
The sky’s just starting to turn dark and the only thing allowing me to see the complexity on your face
is that stupid street light we carved our initials into by the house three doors down.
The truth is that we’ve been here before and I know that you hate when I say
those stupid little thing that really have no relevance at all. Yet I continue
saying them trying to get a deeper thought from the person in front of me who’s turned into nothing more than a duplicate
of one of the moths swarming the now flickering light down the street.
The silence creeping over us is everything but quiet and I know

what’s coming. A techno melody began to play as we both let out a sigh.
It was 1 AM and we’re right back where we started.
“I hate it. We gotta quit doing this.” The telephone light from three doors down was still flickering
as our legs stayed wrapped up in one another.
We’ve been here before: unsaid thoughts, unanswered questions, uncontrolled confusion.
You always say we gotta quit doing this but night after night you lean in for another kiss.

The best gift
That a person can give me,
Is one that is written on paper.
With thoughts that are real,
And words that can heal,
From the heart, to make me feel safer.

bing
someone you barely know alerting you that you're still not good enough
ring
a person you care about calling just to see if they can use you for they're own selfish purpose
ting
a bell screaming that you're late to a class that "blesses you with worthless education and stress
bing
an oven crying out to let you know that some food that you dont want is ready to eat
ding
showing up to a party where all anyone really cares about it whether your high or in bed
sing
another song playing some meaningless lyrics about something you have no interest in
slam
another door closing let everyone know just how much of a freak you really are
drip
blood running off of a soul that is shocked that they're anything still left inside
shuuush
water running to wash off the evidence of a broken heart dripping with liquid pain


silence
**lying on a bed alone waiting for the cycle of emptiness to repeat itself when the dawn comes

It’s true that I’m a beginner in most ways. But I learn fast if taught right.
Never had to fake for rich people, but I can learn. Never told a lover I love them, but I can learn. Never had ***, but I can learn.
It’s the experience.
Now I get it. It’s not a question of quality or quantity, merely question of experience in a world of inexperience.
But how can one learn
If none will teach?

There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.

She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...

She is royal.

She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.

She is powerful.

She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,

Because she is royal.

Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...

She is priceless.

So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.

She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.

Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...

She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle

She is royal.

She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...

Because she is godly.

Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--

She is virtuous,

She is royal...

She is you.

This is my story.
It's my first poem in months
and suddenly
I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind
of passing daydreams and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
in the back of my mind,
echoing across the walls of my brain,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
but it's hard when
I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
The scars that litter me
are fading fast,
but I'm standing still
while the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity and
exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
peeling from the walls of my being
like paper,
this is my story.
It's a written and rewritten masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling
a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit down with a glass of wine
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences
and smudged words.
I guess those things come of a story unfinished-
of a work in progress.

Who is the 'you' that singers sing too?
The 'you' that sends poets diving through vast oceans for poetic pearls?

You're the rain on windows late at night, natures own lullaby.
You're the sun rays in which I bask, you make me feel alive.

You is a collective term.
An indistinguishable figure, a faceless being.
'You' are a silent understanding. Universal.

You hold the promise pleasure and pain of all the bodied 'you's that tarnished your name.
'You' are the silence we scream because the world talks to loud to hear us.

'You' are the nameless, holding up all the 'me's' that aren't strong enough to say this.
'You' are the silence we crave when to speak their names can only pain us.