all i want
is to be wanted
by the ones i want
to be wanted
by.

Some measure distance in inches and feet,
but when friendship is added, the hearts will meet.

For a distance is a slim match to a hope,
to a laugh, a smile, or a single allotrope.

It took a whole hour of my night,
crawling on the dorm room
carpet and digging under
places I didn't know we had, just
to find $1.25 in change.

Quarters were the rarest of all, a
red ruby, the Lost Arc. Nickels were
large and rewarding, but small in value.
Dimes were small and precious. Pennies
were the most abundant and caused sighs
of disappointment when discovered under
layers and layers of junk.

But I finally found enough. And I have
60 grams of pure accomplishment to prove it.

It took a whole hour of my night,
crawling on the dorm room
carpet and digging under
places I didn't know we had, just
to find $1.25 in change.

Quarters were the rarest of all, a
red ruby, the Lost Arc. Nickels were
large and rewarding, but small in value.
Dimes were small and precious. Pennies
were the most abundant and caused sighs
of disappointment when discovered under
layers and layers of junk.

But I finally found enough. And I have
60 grams of pure accomplishment to prove it.

That kind of day where I can
stare at a blank wall for 30 minutes,
and never not have a random useless thought.

I can sit in a chair, half asleep,
half awake and just pretend to be alive while
I exist in the confines of my brain. It's a blank
day. A day where nothing happens. A day
where I don't feel right, or even
human.

Man.

You.

I want your pizza.

You can tell she's a designer by her
fine-tuned dishevelment, the

unwashed bob, the unkempt wool sweater &
the neon green belt under it all. We're trying
on costumes and making adjustments with
safety pins and measuring tape.

Actors in and out, hands everywhere, lots
of slow looking and tiny movements that
change everything.

Morning still hangs
in the air like a slowly falling arc, it's
eleven o' clock. Smiles from
Artist to artist. Little moments.

The sting of caffeine still surrounds my
upper chest, sending shots of pain and exhilaration
to my brain. Morning light graciously floods
the windows and spills onto work tables and
gem-green linoleum.

Back and forth,
          back and forth.

Don't you see it?
that change in my overall countenance?
the way the sun hits my face perfectly now?
it's so obvious to me.
I don't understand why
you passing me doesn't incite
a second look
from you.

My laundry tumbles away
and tonight I've chosen to stay
In the building's basement lounge
And maybe scrounge
Eighty-five cents for a candy bar

The sugar keeps me alert,
Though tomorrow's going to hurt.
          It's five AM oh-one.
                        And I don't want that sun,

My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine that Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of ancient laundering.

As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.

My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine if Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.

Your soft green shirt must
mean that your soul is kind
and your spirit must be wise, and

clearly your heathered socks are
telling me that you are of independent mind,
you're a lone wanderer, a barbarian.

Your red tee is intriguing me, it
means you have an appetite
for adventure, or perhaps it
means that you have an affinity for classical jazz.

I can't remember, but if I
lean in closer, I can hear your clothes clearer.

The clothes tell it best.

This is the last poem I'll ever write
in order to do the world some good.

I no not where to place line
breaks, wether to capitalize or punctuate,
I always forget the latest trend.

I can't seem to be an artist no more,
much less a wielder of words,
so I'm going to stop the flow write now,

feel honored that you get to see the end.
I can't promise this last poem will amount
to much,
But I can promise you this:

The other day, walking to the dining hall,
someone passed by me
and smiled at my boots instead
of my face,

which was clearly marked,
and not hidden by garments
like you might think.

Boots, one.
Me, zero.

I see it play back in my memory like an old video tape,
So dark and crackly, sketchy in certain parts.
I don't see it from my eyes but from a distance,
I'm a spectator of my memory.

It is late at night one night when the family was young,
I was having a sort of waking nightmare.
I couldn't differentiate between the dream
And being awake.

Something terrible was happening
In my dream
I tried to drag you out of bed but you
Were so asleep and so heavy for my young arms
To move

I was trying to tell you that we had to
Get to mom and dad's room.
It was of absolute importance, I remember.
I remember
I had gotten you out of the bed and on the floor but
Your body was so asleep and
I was in distress.
I was terrified, crying as I desperately tried to drag you
Out of your stupor,
"If you love mom and dad you will come"
I said. But you didn't move and

I was stuck alone in that room that
One night in the dark so late at night
Worrying about what was going to happen
And that you were never going to wake up.

Simple thought.
Beautifully phrased random line.
Expansion on simple thought, no rhyming.
Abstract theory.
Troubling question.

Simple thought.
Pretty words.
Really abstract thought that doesn't belong!
Super elusive sentence structure.
Less invasive thought.
Something overheard from the people next to you in Starbucks.
Simple thought.
Simple thought.
Pretty word(s).
Super confusing theory to leave reader with no choice but to call this poem a masterpiece.

It happened that cool & sunny day.
I met you sitting in the grass
Outside the art building,
Drawing your squares and smiling so nice.

I sat myself down and you
Told me a sad story of
Middle school and an incurable disease.

I sat quiet and listened, right there
In the cool grass,
Right by the art building bushes
As you quietly spewed the truth,
All the while diligently drawing your squares,
Noting their imperfections,
As you told that sad story and I recognized your brilliance.

We sat there for fifteen minutes and then
You realized you were late for class.
So you left me, sitting there,
Thinking about things,
Outside of the art building,
Squareless in the grass.

You've got that prep school swagger.
That Sperry Topsider chill.
You have a finishing school varnish,
That J Crew navy twill.

It started with the wide-leg Giorgio Armani pants
And it all went downhill from there.
They were so chic, and might improve her stance,
She could wear them to the market, hell, almost anywhere!

When she put them in her shopping cart
And continued to enter her credit card number,
A shot went right through her fashion-hungry heart
A jolt she still remembers!

It was the feeling of a new era
A new time in the lifespan of her wardrobe.
She would become a Prada-shopper, a vintage Chanel-wearer
No longer would she need to shuffle around her apartment in that awful bathrobe.
She'd strut down the street, sporting her Carolina Herrera.

A month later, a tingle slipped through her spine
As she donned a lapis Michael Kors
It was that sudden thought, "This dress is all mine!"
"It's mine now, so it isn't yours!"

From then on, it was her bank account that took the hardest hits
Money trickled through her Valentino-studded hands,
Down her Vera **** hips,
Came running down in thin, green strands.

Of course it all came falling apart when she saw the flawless Birkin bag,
Sitting there in the Hermes shop window
She knew it was the one thing she'd yet to snag!
However, there was just one thing she didn't know.

As she had the cashier ring it up,
Dropping another ten-grand
The cashier had her card snatched right up!
For this, Madame Fashion couldn't stand.

"Give it back!", she said, snapping her gold-dusted finger
"But dear you're overdrawn," said the snappy lady.
How she wanted to scream like soprano opera singer!
It was then that things got real shady.

In a lurch of madness, Madame jumped the counter!
The other shoppers were struck into awe and fear.
The cashier woman tried to stop her,
But Madame had just barely escaped, finally in the clear!

As she ran down fifth avenue, clutching her precious steal
A horrible revelation took over this felon,
She'd forgotten that she had wanted the purse in gorgeous teal!
Instead she had gotten melon.

I hope you stay like this forever.
You don't hide like they want you to.

I want you to always be playing
In your Sunday's Best in the mud puddles
And not think twice.

I hope you never grasp what they teach you
In institutions of higher education.
I hope you teach them.
Even if they never listen.

I want you to never care
Like I did
I hope you never stop wanting more
I hope you don't settle
I want you to be always scared
And always fearless

I want you to know the difference
Between knowledge
And education.
Never forget what they'll never tell you.

Don't learn.
That would be too easy.

A world passes by me, flowing images
Of houses and of streets,
Wires skewed betwixt concrete and mortar.
It is the blue world,
A world tinted by the glass of modern vessels.
The world is sad and bleak,
Cold through all seasons and knows
Little of the pleasures of red.
In the blue world,
Existence is a constant dream and
One comes and goes
Without pretense or destination.
The blue world searches to find
What is already given,
The blue world never understands,
Never stops, nor stands still.
The world is seen through a thick glass,
It is strange and unfamiliar.
It is the next stop.
It is our world after all.

At times it seems I
Feel nothing. Other times I
Feel everything.

When draped in cloths of purple and the finest crimson,
Gallivanting through the summered forest,
All covered in flower and magic and light.

When heavy in the swoon of a summer afternoon,
Or bathing in the lukewarm embrace of our troubles,
Wallowing away the days
And counting down to the ones when we never have to think.

Or if by chance on the silvery moon,
When gilded with fantasy, and sitting on a happy cloud,
Overlooking our town and falling over from laughter,
For we can finally see how small we are.

It's when we find the golden afternoon,
That special time when birds never die and fairies fly,
That we will truly be content with the way of the hour glass,
And only then can we replace the changeling
With the actual thing,
No longer lost in the green and the mess,
Standing tall in the eaves,

When on our golden afternoon,
We shall be forever friends.

My favorite is
Sasha Pivovarova
She's always so nice

She'll be off-duty
On my 19th birhtday, so
I think we'll hang out.

She's my favorite
Off-duty model for she's
Never off duty.

When I get tired,
My legs just want to move.
It's funny in a way.

The ways my body works against me.

When we were young,
A universe was erected in our home.
The walls of our home were infinite and magical,
They were impenetrable and everlasting.
When we jumped, we thought maybe
We could fly.
When we were young, we could
Get lost in our house.
It was a whole world,
The outdoors were only an extension.
When we were young,
Dinnertime was solemn and thoughtless
Snacks came and went.
Floorboards held unknown delicacies and treasure troves.
When we were young,
We believed in the magic of mankind
And the infinity of a home.
When we were young,
We never expected to be anything else.

The surefire way
         To cure a rainy day
Is a cup or a ***
         Of one Earl Grey.

I'm living on the edge of this life,
Looking out like a pensive seagull
On the Cliffs of Dover,
The pristine white edge of my life.

Looking at the people below play house
And play job
And play love
And play smart
While I pretend to be what you tell me to be.

I smoke light cigarettes
Alone on the bridge
And blow smoke up the trees.

I'm on the edge,
The sharp edge
And I yearn for trouble.
I want turbulence,
I want ****,
I want earthquake,
I want for the earth to shake,
And I want nuclear fallout.

The badder the better
Is what I always say.

At least as of late.

And then the snow came,
Covered the world in white.
A music box of listless thoughts
like pictures out of frame.

It whooshes by so swift,
so quick and beautiful.
One side of the street is slow.
The other is fast.
Opposing ends,
cations.
Magnets,
pulling, tearing,
into one beautiful waltz of latewinter hurrah.
It is so beautiful because not a sole has touched its fall.
Perfectly ****** and smooth.
It is infinity,
never-ending
and terrifying.
Only until the morning breaks
and the people will scuttle from their perches and they will tread
all over its happy white sheet.
What a shame when the morning comes.
Let it stay like this forever.
It is all white
Turbulent
fast
scary
blurry
Nowhere, not anywhere will you see a tread.
It is perfect and always.
It brings me closer to myself
and further from all else.
It won't require a signature
and it doesn't run out of ink.
It is suppliant and healthy.
It will always be.
However, it will melt when the sun beats down.
The sun will come and **** the core.
It will shun out all of my comforts and leave me to be where I want to be the least.
God of night,
shun that terrible sun. Let it be gone forever.
Never let it find me.
Forever hold me in your embrace.
Fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall
forever and ever more.
From heaven to earth
the designated gift from God.
Down from the fat lady into our palms
fall fall fall fall
churn my mind water, churn my dreams.
Me, on the ground.

There is a light in the distance. So small and halogen.
It is amber to the core.
A siren in the storm.
Hearth of the madness.
Half-moon of serenity.

Oh I will never understand my words.
Never will I begin to learn my meaning.
What what what does it mean?
I never will understand.

God, what a great and terrible beauty.
What the hell have I done to you?
You were perfect and now a mess.
It is all my undoing. Why have I done it?

Please forgive me.
Or let me learn,

Let there be light tomorrow. Forget this night.

Now I can never stop, for it never stops.
Why should they be mutually exclusive?
I cannot rest until it is gone.
IT WILL NEVER BE GONE.
I can never get proper sleep.
I SHALL FOREVER BE A SHELL.

Sleep, says the amber half-moon.
Sleep and let all your troubles fall like a cell in the storm.
Let your mind be lost in the drift of snow.

I know a lady who waits
Down on Wall Street,
Snaps her fingers
At brokers
And licks her lips for Madoff.

She adorns her body
With black lace and feathers,
An elaborate facade to lead her men astray.
She whips her hair and
Cackles at passersby,
Opening her rouged mouth wide,
Singing verses without pitch or rhyme.

She yearns for the NASDAQ
To touch her,
Waits ardently for grease ***** to
Work their magic.
She gives willingly,
Unabashedly talks ***** to men in
Tom Ford.

This lady I know asks
For trouble. She is
The ***** of Wall Street,
A slave to modernity,
Snapping her fingers at Cadillacs
And bending over for Madoff.

Do something diabolical.
Flit your wings and
Leap from a skyscraper
Take what is rightfully yours
Or what isn’t

Have the courage to
Not give a ****,
But plumb the depths of
Every possibility
Never hide your face

Always be restless
Never settle, and spit
In the eye of adversity
Crawl in the glass like a wildebeest
Let your hands bleed and your body shake

Stab yourself in the heart
If it must be done
Cry the tears of your people
And feel their pain.
But never stop

Be wicked
Allow the bracken to grow
Become one with nature
Shout unto the mountains
Shout until they answer

Be unbelievably horrible
Be something
Be dark
Be unreasonable
Cackle with delight

Stir the ***
Suit yourself
Seek out revenge
Be diabolical
Be dark

Hi I'm Audrey and
I'm 13 years old And
I have eplipsey but
I don't care much.
I like to go to the river.
And.
Have fun with my Cusion and
go knee boarding. And
to swim i like hanging with
my friends but i don't like it
when people think there all
that it gets on my nerves
i know how to protect my self
i hate it when people think
there popular or
to cool to talk to you
so what but i don't care because
i don't hang out with them i love all
my friends i love going to the river and
having fun and i don't hate
many people if they don't
get on my nerves urge
anyway
if you want to be my friend don't come talking to me if you think your everything

When the rain comes, the police cars always skulk around town because they know trouble is coming.
Especially in the early summer when it rains without pretense
In the after noon when the sky is still clear
And a rainbow is expected.
There is a certain tangible energy in the air as the water comes down in unperturbed lines from God to Earth and momentarily wets the tongue of Paulding, Ohio for no other reason than it is marvelous.
For a moment, puddles form in now glossy streets and the world sags with glory and peace.
I always fetch my navy blue umbrella and walk around slowly like Audrey Hepburn
And pretend to have nothing else to do.
Because it's summer now and it's true.
But the authorities already know what's afoot.
They cruise the streets with shark eyes and let the water wash they're vehicles.
When it first comes, what is it?
Is it the rustling of trees?
Is it a sign of the apocalypse?
A heard of angry locusts?
No, I see, as I look out the window. The rain is coming, it is a whisper from heaven. A sigh of choral Angels who saw the need for beauty on the ground.
The rain comes at random in the late spring and early summer,
that intermediate time of wonderment and rapture.
When the rain comes in straight lines to earth, tangent to the arc of my soul.

Tall tales did she tell
and far fetched was her life
and everywhere, went she, with a dog named Troubles.

Sticky fingers did she have
a monstrous laugh did she bear
and always did she travel with her Troubles.

Never upwards, went she, but always across
the walk was never too far
and far with her dog, Troubles.

Bark! bark! Went Troubles
and she slapped it on the nose
for never did she let the Troubles bite her.

And then I sigh
and call it a night.
I think,
tomorrow,
I shall wake up and
want to be a mechanic.
So I can fix myself up.

Big Ohio
Great big fields
Grain and seed
Big Ohio
Where the birds are freed

Great big Ohio
Where I felt my first breath
Trees of acorn
Great big Ohio
Where I was born

Wide open passages
Between which I ran
Chasing down dead birds
Wide open passages
Where words became words

Long lasting nights
When we discovered the fun things
Ran around, around, around
Long lasting nights
Between lost and found

Big, tall Ohio
Pain is in the air
Discovery everywhere
Big, tall Ohio
Where the winds whips your hair

So vast, Ohio
You’ve blown open the door
Let the past be past
So vast, Ohio
Be free at last

Brand new Ohio
The floors sparkle with life
New people surround
Brand new Ohio
Where possibilities abound

Short, everlasting moments
A forgotten comrade of mine
A transient, magical time
Short, everlasting moments
Without reason or rhyme

Stormy weather, Ohio
Beat the proverbial drum
Secrets will be told
Stormy weather, Ohio
Where the story shall unfold

Big Ohio
Run right beside me
Play the everlasting game,
Big Ohio
Never forget your name

Rolling down the road, in a sunset town
A pop from the tailpipe and a rumbling sound.
Never before have you seen the town like this.
Friendly faces, children running. Bliss.

A sweet voice, humming over the airwaves
Sultry and definite, like the end of this day.
It's stampeding to a hault, to an end of days.
It should have always ended this way.

The raccoon, his days of mischieve cut short,
Forever stagnant and flat on the black.
No one will build him his tomb, an animal mosoluem, no funeral fort.
What will happen when I die, what will be lax?

We all stride to and fro,
Oscillatory on this wavelength God-given.
What happens when we finally go,
When our own life is not living?

Men may say that life is long for fear of the afterworld,
For that untrodded territory in which we know not of
But I say that life is too fleeting,
For the fish which swim, the birds above.

What is life, when put to music?
Can you hear it better when the melodies mix?
Is the world more rustic?
Are we fools to its tricks?

Sunset falling on faces of a sprawl,
One day over, one to end them all.
I feel an ocean rushing over me
I find myself floating at sea