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.

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.

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

Baseless words
fueled by hate,
racism, jealousy, fear.

Words that the adults
choose to turn
a deaf ear.

Pretending,
if they go unacknowledged
they'll just disappear.

They won't.

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

"The telephoto lense is slightly cracked,
But everything else is in pristine condition,"
I said, straightening up.
"She's served me well over the years."
You raised your eyebrows.
"She?" you asked, quizzically.
"Well, of course she.
Actually, Bella.
She's named after my grandmother who..."
I caught myself.
"Oh, you don't want to hear this."
"No, please go on."
I took a deep breath, and continued.
"She was named after my grandmother, Bella,
Who first introduced me to photography.
Grammy Bella gave me her old Polaroid
For my eighth birthday.
It was just..."
My voice trailed off,
"The coolest thing."
You smiled.
A picture perfect smile.
Flash.
I continued,
"My life is a series of documented flashes.
Lost my first tooth; flash!
Played in my first concert; flash!
Sang a solo for chorus; flash!"
"Wow," your voice cracked,
Nothing more than a whisper.
" I think I'd like to buy it."
I stumbled through the filing cabinets
Of my subconscious mind,
Thumbing through old flashes...
"Actually, it's not for sale."

And something's changed,
but we're still the same,
you and me,
our hands fit just so
and I can feel your heart race
against my tired body.

It's been a few days now,
but I still feel your warmth  
and taste your tears on my lips
from our evening in the car,
when for once,
I was holding you.

That night, the tables turned,
hell, the tables never cease;
but we're just the same,
we're still the same,

and our hands still lock together.

The sun shines brightly.
Beads of sweat replenish skin,
And the sun? My soul.

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.

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.

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.

The autumn leaves float down around me,
While summer sun shines overhead.
Winter winds blow harshly down.
I hide my hands inside
My coat, and notice
Nature can't make
Up her mind
About
Me

Love is a funny thing,
Sometimes it can really sting.
Often, an unexpected guest,
Popping up unannounced, and taking over
Or, lucky like a 4 leaf clover!
...Making your heart beat out of your chest.

Now, saying those three fateful words
Can bring immense joy or hurt.
But you've got to take the chance.
It's too much to suppress!
Say it, then figure out the rest;
Say it, and you'll want to dance!

If he loves you, a smile won't leave your face,
There you are, in his embrace!
Never wanting to go.
The fact that you'll love me makes me engrossed
In you! Only wanting to hold you close,
Feeling anything but low.

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.

She walks beneath the moonlight,
Dodging the street lights
And lurking beyond each corner.
She yearns for just one star
To descend and kiss her face;
For every single birthday wish
Since she was a little girl
Was that . . .

Though she never quite believed it.

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.