When the moon howls
Thats when she talks
Loud, so loud
I can not think

All I do is
Listen
Listen
and Listen

Nothing more but
Follow her lead

Out of bed
On my feet
"Get the rope
and follow me"

I grab the
Knife
She gets
the blade

I slowly
Drift to my
Last breath

My final smile
Happened

Underneath the
Blood moon

I tried to write a poem
to get the feelings out.
They said poetry
Went with angst
Almost as well as
Sylvia Plath
and-
Repetition.

But I wrote a poem
And another
And another
And another.

And they felt wrong
And got shorter and shorter
And less and less creative
And didn’t look much like art

Painting is art
Sculpture is art
Music is art.
Whining isn’t.

That’s the thing
With poetry;
It’s art
Or it’s nothing

And I seemed like a nothing
And I must have felt nothing
Because nothing was on the page
And I had nothing left to add

Because “Why do good people die?”
Is trite
And “Is war such a good idea?”
Has been done
by the Beatles.
“I can’t stop crying”
Mostly rings true for babies
And they rarely
If ever
Read poems.

So I had only one word
That could sum up the tight
and the hurt
and the lost
And a word’s not a poem
At all-
is it?

I wish I were eloquent
I wish it were pretty
I wish my hands
could heal you
And my voice
could soothe you
And my laugh
infect you
And my heart
reach you
My words
touch you
My arms
hold you
and
fix
you
but
all
I
have
is
“you."

A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
      not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
                 but stars we named together
                   linking lines from star to star
       hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
                           another
  leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
            that you
                            chase
                           ­            chase
                                                  chase
   ­         lifting the palm of your hand
                 so cold to the touch I shiver
            feeling the beauty of my tears
         that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
             of this cold Parisian night
  you smile in jest and
     I misplace the space
  between you and I and that sky
  whispering "do you love me?"
    how could I resist the beauty of
                 our second to last kiss.

© Sia Jane

There's a part of me that thinks I'm a princess-
theres another part of me that thinks im a despicable vermin.
I'm a royal who lives in a gated castle-
or im a slave who roams the empty streets.
I eat from grand tables with only the finest of people-
or i scrounge for scraps in the trash of the elite.
I look at the poor and pity them-
or i look at the rich and feel envy.
I wear silk and fine linens-
or i wear nothing at all.
I love myself-
or i hate every fiber of my being.
I deserve a prince from a foreign country-
or i deserve the dirt beneath my feet.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I know the pain you feel is deep,
your want from life is simple peace.
And though I cannot guarantee,
please listen closely, as I speak.

Presently you stroll alone,
searching for a hand to hold.
You feel your sorrow in your bones,
in harshest sun, you still feel cold.

Pre - dawn, however, is darkest night
that must be followed by morning light.
I pray you won't give up the fight,
the universe will set things right.

I know at times, it seems unclear
that happiness is always near.
But wholly I believe my dear,
someday soon, you'll find some cheer.