Electrified inspiration draws me to my seat.
My mind races hundreds of miles per hour.
Ideas blossom in my mind.
When the webpage finally loads?
Nothing.
Blank.
No ideas, no inspiration, only a trickster,
dancing away boastfully with all my ideas.
****.

How can we be the only ones in the world with a weakness.
Can you see our sickness?
This yellow, cancerous flame- eating me away.

How do i know you can stop this?
Would your mind change if i said
I made it this way?
Now i fear there won't be another day.

Where should i go?
Along this dusty, winding road
with everyone else who is alone.
Once in awhile you'll see a rigor smile
stuck in this empty soul.
We all walk these roads alone.
Together we're so alone.

When do I find out if this is it?
Where do i go to cash in these chips?
Do i empty this clip or cling to this sinking ship?
Follow me down...
Please don't say "no," please don't go.

The way tarnish defines weathered copper
we see men defined my media.
Rise up power! Take hold indulgence!
Succeed, conquor and win all you can.

Gone are the days of hearing ones soul
rooting ourselves to another to remind us
that we are not transcendent.
Tomorrow is never promised.

Investment refers to stocks and bonds,
no longer to each other.
They rise and fall like the sea- impermanent
like ourselves. We long for cohesion.

We toss ourselves to and fro,
choosing to weather the raging ocean rather than
moor ourselves in the cove of friendship
and take a chance on what's real.

Now are the days of showmanship.
More than you, less than him--- besting when we can.
Gone are the days of foundations
you can really stand on.

Rise up you days of sand.

The stars stayed in tonight.
They were intimidated by
the light and heat emanating from
you and me.
They knew it would be
without cause to try
and outshine our love.
They knew you and I would
put them to shame.
Orion put away his belt and
watched us dreamily.
Taurus calmed itself,
going off to sleep.
Even the seven sisters
somehow managed to put aside their differences
in order to watch our warm glow.
So we went out walking
just to be sure
the world wouldn’t be without our light.
With each step and each word
we only confirmed the
thoughts of the stars
and the cloudy sheets stayed fast.
Only the moon dared
try to outshine us.
She knew her love of the sun
would be the only light brighter
than us.

Starting seed, sleeping-blissful slumber flavoredwith dreams of abundance.a gentle heat envelopescoaxing life with warm embraces.Sustenance rains from the skyto fulfill the awakening life.Tightened, stiffened sinews regain their strengthstretching, reaching towardswarmth and light.Here, now, the sun is waning.The shift to the colddead times. The last of her warm embrace issoulfully propelled towardthe late bloomers, the oversleeperssweetly caressing them into wakefulness for the lastdying colors to the brightestof seasons.

I don't know what to say,
or what to call this--feeling?
No--momentum.
The speedwith which
you're crashing into me
.Suddenly, quickly, sweetly, quietly
you've crept into everything
I think of, dream, wish for.
I can't see where I've earned
anything so sweet, so kind.
Nor can i see what i could
possibly offer you.
I imagine that we are all
like grape juice, fermenting
slowly, sweetening, perfecting
and we search in each other
for the most complementary
flavor. We give a little of
ourselves to a few or many
glasses, trying, trying.
But--
suddenly, quickly, sweetly, quietly,
we pour a bit of ourselves
into one cup that blends us
perfectly into fine wine.

I can see it
intriguing smile, flirty eyes,
hair just so, to where it falls across my face.
My breath caresses the mic as if
a snake charmer wooing a cobra.
The crowd leans in
ever so slightly
in one uniform motion
but each are unaware of the others.
Confident, charming
I own them for that moment
and everything I say matters.
Maybe too much.
They chant with me
cult-like in rhythm
and memorization-of idle words
profanely displayed on billboards,
websites, anything at all.
They drink it in- starving to be inspired.
They are without, and I’ve convinced them I’m with.
With what? With consumerism,
battling to control their
next poorly placed dollar?
with knowledge that they don’t have?
Why don’t they have it? Have they tried?
No, of course not. This liberty island has
given up on the American dream; hoping
it can be fought from a prostrate position
on an over-stuffed couch from their
over-stuffed mouths.
They’ve been stuffed with too much power,
too much misplaced freedom.
America, you are no longer free. You chain yourself
with entitlement and ownership.
You force your ideals on any too weak
to speak up for their own. You have turned
into one giant, fifth grade girl fight
with hair-pulling, pinching and screams.
You don’t even know why you fight anymore,
do you?

"Don't die on the inside,"
was the text i sent-
knowing it was a bittersweet visit
and a hard decision.

"I'm gonna get so ****** up,"
to forget- as we discussed,
because everyone knows
Bud is the friend of the broken.

Never forget, my friend,
the things that make you feel,
because numbness is a hell
of probing fingers only the mute acknowledge.

Upon discussion, you recite back
the "right thing to do" with all the logic-
an adult assurance of
knowing what's best over what's wanted.

And yet, stone words
rolled easily off of my well-advise tongue
to assure you
of the answer you dreaded.

We both know the ONE will
never come, doesn't exsist, was never determined-
but try to appreciate that your stage time
hasn't yet come in the tragedy that is love.

So when the stone words weigh you down,
don't jump in, don't drown.
Take each stone, examining it well,
and don't die on the inside.

Skyfall
usually docile
sweet and cleansing.
Today-
bitter, oppressive, forceful,
breaking through-
manipulating the earth
teasing all life
with the promise
of sustenance
but with no delivery.
Gathering itself
to push through the lowlands.
All take cover tonight,
except angry gales
joining the clouds in
their hatred of gravity
and ****** the earth
with rain.

My joy bubbled over
when I saw you again.
Words overlapped
like midday traffic in New York.

Our hands found
their home with eachother
as if there was never
an absence.

I guess i just never
realized I had left
a slice of my soul
in your hands.

Go!
Set it up!
Lead the Way!
But-
If we are all going,
and setting up,
and leading the way-
If we all set a pace for everyone
and we're all doing it
our own way...
what will be left?
When everyone is CEO
but no one does the work
or, when everyone does
the talking
who is left to hear?
So-
stay true to yourself,
know what you want.
Fight like hell to get there
but don't be afraid to follow.

Criticism is poison
often coated in sugar.
The worst kind
going straight to
the heart and soul
causing permanent
disability.

Give us 10 more years
paving this land with memorials.
Arlingtons, Monuments, Wailing Walls
to those who chose, and some who didn't
for causes sometimes hardly worthy
filling our country
with reminders of contempt
and bitterness- loss- maybe without cause
until our babies
have no soft place to rest their heads
and plenty of ideas
ready-made
on intravenous drip
into soft minds
so they never have to draw
another conclusion ever again.

Can poetry matter?
Will you go get the book?
Will you allow my
thought process to
permeate yours- to influence
inspire, insinuate, and integrate
thoughts and ideas
you may never write down
yourself?

Can poetry matter?
Will this coffee shop
remember my words tomorrow?
Will I?
Will anyone even stop
to hear them?
Is it worth more than
the grade I get in English 306?
Will I continue to write and submit
when its no longer required?

Can poetry matter?
Will sonnets by Shakespeare
be remembered
when the world goes digital?
Will Emily Dickinson
still inspire minds
with her words?
Will the world still turn
without the written word?
Can there be song in
a music world
without verse to fuel it?

Can poetry matter?

After you, there was nothing else to feel.
You tore me apart, my spirit and my body,
leaving me bleeding in a way I couldn’t change.
Bruises riddle my arms, thighs and face
and shame clouds my perception of the world.
A part of my insides dies with my innocence.

I am now a vessel--from filth creating innocence
I am confused about how I am supposed to feel.
Is joy the emotion for bringing life to this world?
The bruises fade but pain still riddles my body.
When I sleep I’m haunted by your face.
I hate what is in me the more my body changes.

Each month I grow and can’t deny the change
that gives away the loss of my innocence.
They tell me this tiny monster has a face-
probably one like yours. The thought makes me feel
like vomiting. Even Momma beats my body.
She doesn’t want this monster in this world.

I have nowhere left to go in the whole world.
Of course this is the same as yesterday. No change.
I am not the only one disgusted with my body.
You ravished the very essence of my innocence.
Does anyone else understand how it feels
to be rejected by even your fathers’ face?

I want to tear off your face.
I want to scream to the whole world
but instead I am silent and numb without feeling.
My own father kicked me out without any change
for the bus. He, too, forgot I was innocent.
You stole my family along with my body.

This thing inside me is yours-- this body
whose face is a tiny mirror of your nasty face.
For all I care, it is born without innocence
and should be removed, with you, from the world.
Nothing anyone says can make that change.
I refuse to feel.



I no longer know the meaning of the word innocent.
Violent shudders rattle through my body

I can’t take any more pain or feeling!
I hate that tiny face.

Today I brought your monstrosity into the world
but in your own world not a thing changed

We began innocently enough.
I certainly never set out to transform
from no one
into such a staunch example of judgment.
“confidence,” you scream,
and I cry, hoping for it.
You will never hear my respect
if you never let me speak!

And as much as the words I never said
cut you to the bone,
the assumptions you make--
that I would ever stoop that low,
bleed me dry and empty
of the blue blood that keeps me yellow.

To hear from party three and source
that you will still believe only yourself
when the evidence has cleared
a stone-faced jury
causes me to continually ponder
where I got these horns and triton.

I remember like a dream
that you yourself burned that triton
straight to my palm forever
and painted my tear-streaked eyes
to match these bleeding horns
you’ve driven deep into my skull.
They cause me to forget myself
and worship you in *******
as sacrilege sneers.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
I mean, sure I have a bright personality
but some have seen me fiery and smoldering
and I burn those who stand too close.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
They certainly don’t realize I hide
a much softer side behind each rant.
The fluff and feathers go unhatched in my shell.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
My laugh certainly can draw a stare
as it rumbles up out of my chest
and tinkles to the ground like crystal.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and the rage from forever-hurts flare.
My fire lashes out and tears betray me
as I hope to be secretly strong.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and realize I know I’m not much to look at, at all.

I remember things being different.
The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
I tie these sad grey bricks to my ankles.
I bathe in puddles of my own fear.

The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
I bathed in puddles of my own fear,
only wishing for change or death.

No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
Comfort flees from the numbness,
only wishing for change or death—
knowing now that change won’t come.

Comfort flees from the numbness.
I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea,
knowing now that change won’t come—
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.

I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea.
I tie these sad, grey bricks to my ankles.
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.
I remember things being different.

Everything: pronoun.
a.) every thing of particular of an aggregate or total; all.
This is what I’m told you are
but I’ve never been one for deities.
You hear my thoughts
but command me to speak.
You know my human ways
but still expect to have me all to yourself.
You’re jealous- a “jealous god”
but I’m to believe you’re perfect?
The book says your ways are higher
but the coincidences and rules
that surround your mystery
just don’t add up enough for me.

Enough: adverb
a.) in a quantity or degree that answers a purpose or satisfies a need or desire; sufficiently.
I have a desire to change,
I have a desire to love,
hell, I want a Ferrari!
I don’t have those so are you
really enough if I use the book definition?
But, no, seriously, some people are starving
while others cant stop killing
or lying or stealing or hating.
Are you enough for them too?
Im still waiting,
but we at least have that in common.
They say you are too.
“They” being the activists, the followers, “yours”
and yet you’re still waiting for surrender.

Surrender: verb
a.) to yield to the possession or power of another; deliver up possession of on demand or under duress
You want me ever so much
-or so I’m told.
When I want something
I have to ask or initiate.
Where are you?
Are you planning on ever
speaking to me or asking?
Where is your humility
to simply ask?
Waiting for what you don’t ever request
is more foolish than I ever assumed
a deity of great power and might
could be.
You astound me for sure,
but not in a good way.
I thought the zealous screamed
something about you being the definition
of everything,
but I don’t seem to be able to define you that way at all.
I ask these questions innocently,
yet still I hear no response.
Did you perhaps,
in your infinite wisdom
create the world
and forget to give yourself a voice?

First time, commercial coffee shop
overindulgence, over laden with portfolio,
books, purse, and now cup: underdressed.
Far too few layers for a
shower of cotton *****
sticking to eye-lashes and hair.

Journeying from coffee shop
to bus stop; urban miles away.
piles of melty cotton *****
grab at my inappropriate shoes.
Too much milk and water
turn me off to Christmas in a cup

so I stick out my tongue
and allow my taste buds a play date with Jack Frost instead.

A lifetime away
a new place with new playmates.
This time leaves and stinky berries
push me on to my destination.
A new coffee shop with bells on the door
boasts bashfully of the same overindulgence.

This one small, cozy like
a thrift store couch or kittens.
Community and friendship present
me with that first cup of Christmas.
Someone from that other world
whispers the memory to me.

Again, my tongue
experiences the most joy on this memory experience.

How I hate to write in forms for class.
Whatever was inside the poets mind
who put me in this academic bind?
I’ll try and try to write this through my stress
hoping it won’t cause me much duress.
I wonder how the greats accomplished this
without destroying something with their fists.
My frustration has me at impasse.

Procrastination will not help me victorious be.
I need to just sit down and try my hand.
Imagine my surprise when I should see
A finished sonnet here in front of me!
Now from this I can for good disband
and leave the sonnet in my poem class.

I have lost all control.
Having kids was not my best idea.
I am at my wits end.

Why does my bathroom look like it snowed?
Stop climbing on that coffee table Leah!
I have lost all control…

Do not play in the road!
Who puts pimento spread on a tortilla?
I am at my wits end!

These socks should not be a la mode…
Im selling you kids to South Korea.
I have lost ALL control.

Why is my banister starting to corrode?
I’m going to need stock in IKEA…
I am at my wits end…

My sanity is leaving by the busload.
Who knew crayons cause diarrhea?
I have lost all control!
I AM AT MY WITS END!!!

I left the flat to pay the electric
and a stranger approached.
Shocking. But,
he was a strange stranger
sporting a long brown coat
and rubber boots
a bowler derby
and a broomstick.
“Can we both fly away to Oblivion
and visit Neverland?
And the land before time--
play Jumanji and see Narnia
and come back with scientific discoveries and fanfare?”
he asked with a thick accent.
Just before I could respond,
he grabbed my hand and pulled me
toward an iron bed.
He quickly ******* on a bed ****,
rubbed it and mumbled something
and all I could do was
stare.
Webster certainly
didn’t correct me
as I never opened my mouth.
So we settled on the moon,
waded in stardust--
and pondered our space odyssey.
HAL begged us to stop laughing
and threw roses until we
came back down.
All the way down
to the size of carpenter ants.
We quickly found a few
and tamed them for a ride.
But first had to convince them
that the lazy cricket could never be
convinced of the value
of a hard days work.
A Lost Boy darted past
as we concluded the lecture
and a game of tag ensued.
We captured them all
and deposited them with Mary Poppins
who worked wonders on their manners.
She offered us a
cup of tea with a spoon
full of sugar, so we indulged.
Imagine my surprise
when the Mad Hatter
hung his hat and joined.
We then rose and danced after
the Nutcracker.
The stars followed us
and the daisies cried petals
leaving freckles of pollen all over.
Achebe reminded us
that things fall apart
so we didn’t mind the mess so much
and set off for the trolley wood
where trees ride carts.
But when we blinked
they were gone and how we cried!
John asked us to Imagine--
so we did that instead. Alice popped
through the looking glass to show us
a tiny door that Anastasia had
forgotten and once through it
we bloomed and went to seed
and were carried to the sea on an
autumn breeze.
Suddenly swallowed, we met a pickle
named Jonah in a dark fishy place.
He needed a therapist and I was not qualified.
With a heave-** we were spewed onto sand
and marooned with a Captain Jack
who was preoccupied with ***.
So we closed our eyes,
clicked our heels together three times,
and I ended up on my front porch
quite alone.
No fanfare, and certainly no
science-- as I could hardly tell
if reality was even involved.
The electric bill quickly commenced calling
and responsibility dampened my fun.