Fingers-- calloused, rough
Like sandpaper, your touch cuts
My sensitive skin.

"How do you like it?"
I glanced up to see
two dark eyes
watching me
expectantly.
"The book I mean --
sounds pretty dry
but I've been meaning
to read it for some time now."

"It's uh. . ."
I stuttered,
sipping my tea and trying
to string two intelligent thoughts together.
"It's not too bad,
but I've only just begun."
I smiled coyly and
revealed that I was only
in the second chapter.

He went on to tell me
of his studies at Duke,
and inquire after what
university I am attending.

There I was,
all dressed up and out
by myself, and it would have been
so easy,
simply divine,
to twist a story and take this
perfect stranger
on a trip.

But in the end of the day,
I'm no college student.
Just a high school senior
playing House
and writing poetry in coffee shops.

When I was young,
     my mom braided my hair with purple ribbons
     every Sunday morning.
Her fingers trembled, tangled in my curls,
     but she kept braiding, twisting, tying
     until it was to her standard.
Nights like this, I miss her
     as I braid my own hair,
     And I can't achieve the perfection
Of those trembling fingers.

The rain pours down
Beating on the glass,
Muffling the cries
Of unforgiving pasts.
As the tears fall
They blend into the rain
Another forgotten tear
Another ignored pain.
The lightning flashes
The thunder rolls;
This dark night
Has claimed her soul.

Today marks three years since the accident--
Three years since he lost control of the plane,
Losing every single life, and barely escaping death himself.
This particular evening, the wind is blowing fiercely
As he drives into the city to meet his fiancé.
It's only 6 o'clock, but the sun is nowhere to be seen;
Absolute darkness overwhelms the landscape.
He is growing tired, and pulls to a rest stop for coffee,
But it is locked. how strange, he thought to himself.
He hears the voices of others, but no one is in sight.
The voices crescendo from whispers to blood curdling screams
As he makes his way back to the car.
Suddenly, he feels a distinct hand on his shoulder,
And another firmly cutting off his airways.
A blinding light illuminates everything,
Revealing, in the window, the hand to be his own.

I spent too long drowning
under the weight of your devotion
breathing in your pressurized air
and counting the days
on the underside of my arm.
For you,
I tweaked myself, freaked myself
out by my willingness to fold.
And after everything,
it was you who walked away.

I've been here for a few years now,
leaning back into the wall and waiting for my train.
Six years. I've waited six years
and not realized until just last year
that my train isn't coming.
It never will.

I remember the day we arrived.
Joyful. Hopeful. Eager for an adventure
and ready to leave this God-forsaken town.
June 10, 2007, we arrived: clueless.

The first person passed eight months later,
February 15, 2008.
She has slumped to the ground now. . .
nothing more than a pile of disintegrating bones.
August 12, 2008-- the second person died.
Now he, or what remains of him,
occupies the darkest, shadowed corner.

One by one, my fellow travelers passed
with no warning or sign.
Each body is in a different state of decomposition,
bearing an individual horror story
that will never be heard.
There is no one to hear it.

With each passing dawn,
I prepare myself for death;
as each day breaks,
I'm perpetually surprised that
my eyes open again.
The only thing left to do now is wait --
Wait for my impending death,
Wait to tell the stories of these surrounding skeletons,
And wait for a train that will never arrive.

Darling, I'm still learning to be brave
with the hole of your absence
festering in my gut
like the fresh wound it is.
But I'll get there.
They criticize, but they don't know
I have Courage in my collarbone,
Love on my lips,
and nothing to lose.

And every now and then
feel your pulse and sway
to the rhythm of your heartbeat
because sometimes
you have to take those
failing tests
scraped-up knees
rejection letters
and broken hearts
and run with them

run hard and run fast

and don't you ever look back.

My lips
Quiver in your
Presence of true beauty.
Funny how Nature wields her wrinkled
Old hands.

It takes but a moment,
an instant
for my world
to come crumbling down.

But today feels different
since I've realized
that life isn't falling apart. . .

It's falling together.

Even after all this time,
I remember the look on his face. . .
That sheer desperation and pleading in his eyes.
That was the first time I really felt he cared about me,
His youngest daughter...
But it was too late.
You and me, Jule; you and me.
We can stay here and do all the things
You've always wanted
(He looked at the ground)
and I never made time for.
You and me, Jule.

But the car was packed;
I was going with Mom,
Whether I wanted to or not.
after several fleeting moments
I pulled myself away
Leaving my forlorn father
In the muggy, humid basement.
After all this time, I remember his face
And the smell of that God-forsaken basement.
But I want to forget.

Monsters are so big and scary.
   They torment children, and adults alike.
      With their horrifying laughter, and putrid stench,
         They prey upon innocent, frost-like.
These are the monsters we expect,
   But these are not yet the worst!
      The biggest monsters masquerade
         As those with roles reversed.
Sometimes the ones we love the most,
   Are the biggest monsters of all.
      They get in deep, then rip to  shreds
         Our hearts, with a horrifying brawl.

I write the endings first. The plot. The
destination-- but it changes
at some point in the middle.
After all, how could I
know where my writing
is headed when
I don't know
who I
am?

While thoughts race through my head,
Not one stands out.
"To achieve greatness", a man once said.
Is that what life's about?

On this note, the thoughts got stronger.
This cannot be the truth.
To care about yourself; no longer
Helping others. Only being uncouth.

Helping those in need brings joy.
It removes stress and strife.
So lend a helping hand, and don't be coy;
That's the purpose of life.

the brown of my eyes has a story to tell:
a recollection of sorts, filled with
family vacations,
love, petty arguments and a
lust
for life and yet as i sit here
with my pen and a page
i'm left drowning in my thoughts --
overtaken by my internal current.

my eyes used to be much lighter,
but with each argument
2 a.m. stress cleaning session,
and panic attack,
a certain darkness took her place
******* the color and
will to live
from my brown eyes.

now as i stand,
looking through memories
like my favorite picture book,
my eyes have turned dull and
black.
i have nothing left to give.

Some things can't be forced,
No matter how hard you try;
And some things can't be forced
With no real reason why.

Dumb luck first put us together,
And I tried to keep us apart;
But you pushed me, made luck prevail.
Now I hold my bleeding heart.

I wasn't what you really wanted;
You weren't my cup of tea.
So please shut the door behind you,
Just go and let me be.

Your name, on my lips,
Tingles like a forbidden
Secret-- kept from me,
Kept from you.

I'll have to forget me to know where I've gone,
And take myself back to find my way home.
You will let me go, or I'll never return.
I'll have to forget me to know where I've gone.

We were practically babies
When all of this began.
I [still] have the pictures to prove it.
Now, two years later,
I realize it was easier to be
With you back then,
When my head was in the clouds,
And my heart,
Hopelessly lost with yours.

This poem
I think to myself
as my shaking hand takes to the page,
Will be about the day my father left,
my first day of college,
or even the way my hands shake when I write.*
I write six words,
scratch out seven more,
and continue until I notice
i'm left with
a sloppy "i
           still  
    need
        you."