We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.

Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.

Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.

Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.

We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.

We are the pause before the applause.
We are rarity's like Haley's comet
making you scramble for a telescope.

Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.

We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.

Poetry a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.

*By JannaLee Perry and Rapunzel

She hides from her mother
ignores her dad,
she dwells within loss
and all things sad

her stomach's sick in the morning
she doesn't know why,
oh, she locks herself away
to break down and cry

heart jitters -
throat chokes in a lump -
every time her mind strays
to thoughts of her body's little flat bump

knowing what it might be
paranoid about how much it shows,
fooling herself no one will notice
even if it grows -

alas her head swells
sick with clotted disdain
no she can't carry on -
can't carry on with the pain

so up she opens to her parents
tears flowing from both eyes
unmasking the secret
that for months she's disguised

distraught, weeping,
the sordid act now told,
her mother heartbroken
her father disgusted but bold

"There's only one thing to do,"
he muttered with a voice that was hoarse
and down the ****** route of abortion
did they both start to course

her mother weak, pleading,
begging her daughter to think again -
her father furious, saying don't be so stupid
she's only the age of ten

and so Alice had enough
buckled and snapped,
her lust for life
sorrows parasite finally sapped

off the city bridge, into the icy water
did she jump and dive -

now encapsulated within the womb of death,
that keeps both mother and child alive.

They laid their hands upon my head,
They stroked my cheek and brow;
And time could heal a hurt, they said,
And time could dim a vow.

And they were pitiful and mild
Who whispered to me then,
"The heart that breaks in April, child,
Will mend in May again."

Oh, many a mended heart they knew.
So old they were, and wise.
And little did they have to do
To come to me with lies!

Who flings me silly talk of May
Shall meet a bitter soul;
For June was nearly spent away
Before my heart was whole.