Once when I was young,* I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just *fly away.  

   I learned early on
               That not everything we're told is true
               The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind
                    The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure
      Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods
                And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
         Play time was replaced with study time,
             And before we knew it, it was time for work
                      We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth,
      Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going
                                              Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight,
              And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun
                       But to tell the truth, sometimes,
     When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities,
         I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet
    Hoping it will let me *soar

Death is a classic clatter,
A primeval pattering
Or The ringing
Of Adam's house.

It patters
On every roof,
On every raod
And on every field.

At my door,
It rings,
At your window too,
As at your neighbor's.

The echo
OF our father's doorbell,
And the same
Is in space.

It reverberates
With the sun,
And when
Hollow is dark.

Ever since you left me
I have been wearing
lovers
like strings of pearls
upon my neck,
one after the other.
pretty pearls
adorning my skin
with their kisses.
They say
“You’re beautiful.”
But I still feel

nothing.

Intent on shells
she's a girl
where screech the gulls.

Age she kills
makes sandhills
breaks the walls.

I thought I could walk away from writing by falling in love.
I have not touched a piece of paper in so long, I forgot how it felt between my fingers, and even what it smelled like.
Now my heart is hurting and I run to the paper. A lover that simply sat and waited on a desk, collecting dust.
I could be rejected from paper, but He opens up to me.
'I have missed you,' He says.
His perfect lines as straight as before I left.
'Ive been gone too long. May I.....?' I pull out my wooden ink pen.
The paper suddenly sticks to the desk.
'Of course. Always for you.'
I lightly touch the paper with the tip, and my mind is already flowing out the hurt and pain. All my feelings have pulsed through my bloodstream, into my fingertips and to the end point of the writing utensil.
My pen scratches, and I can already feel the two of us sighing, releasing against one another

No one tells you
How boys with pretty eyes
Who smell like smoke
Who taste like stars
Who talk like gold
Are the reason behind
Tear stained sheets
Broken dreams
And silent screams
They forgot to mention
How boys with sad smiles
Who smell like rain
Who taste like pain
Who talk like hope
Are the reason behind
Torn hearts
Sad eyes
And sleepless nights