My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

if I die today ,
I will not be history ,
and my love will be for you mystery ,
I waste my life on you ,
but I swear I will not be ignore no no no more
if I die today ,
will the sun will stop to shine ?
or moon will be mine?
I will never stop going on my life ,
even if stars not mine ,
if I die to day .

But one day when futures are bright
And school children dress in Sunday best
Great Machines will rise above the smoke
Great Buildings will rise above the smog
Great Minds will remain buried deep in humming labs
Scientist and machines
Gears and cogs
Rusting in the fluorescent
Glow
Of progress

Boys will
Girls will
Fight the good fight
Of human being
The Kissing on each other
The Drugging with each other
Afternoons and jumped fences
Just to feel each others secrets


Boys will
Girls will
Be just as wrong
And just as bad
And will grow to say
Good boys and Good Girls Never do those things

Man
Is the tree,

That bares no fruit
Nor flower,
Leaf
Or heart.

But has those so destructive roots
That rip
This world
Apart.
Elisabeth Pfeffer

It wasn't too long ago when I last saw you
But forever is an overwhelming state of mind
See, all emotions are transferrable to expression
It's not by force
But by watching the spool roll down the hallway and unwind
I could never roll it back up
So I learned how to knit
You learn adaptation, and to control your mind
Energies can take harsh tolls
On the stamina of your patience
So just stop thinking from time to time.

my mundane life
is all too trivial
I am a child
I still live
in my parents house
the one my father built
with his words,
the one my mother
blew spirit into
with her macaronis
the one I sat
in my room
studying in
useless packs
of forgotten information
trying
to cry.
into new notebooks
and ukulele
filling bathtubs
opening windows
letting air
form an air
of beauty
in my ugly
homely
country
unloved country
every being here
utters poorly articulated words
of loath
to you
how do you stand
so strong
whilst staggering within
adversity?
would my life
be more
or less
mundane
if I were nabokov
living in russia
transcending and transmitting
beauty?
coated with cold
and cruelty
thats cruel for cruelty
and aesthetics sake,
rather than
heat
and rage
and silenced
misery.

When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:

“Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion,
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy;
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her—
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy.”

Drinking dandelion-and-burdock
til you drop
fighting over the does
punting your second burrow
over the first swallow
the first frost

Playing reynard-roulette
with the yearling foxes
out all night
winding up the hares
“big ears – can't dig”
Countless children

A sweetheart in every meadow

Old rabbits die hard

My mind goes on a journey
as I sink in my bed of flowers and nails
I see stars morph into raindrops
during a thunderstorm of hearts and hail

My notebook writes itself
and my mirror constantly tells me lies
And when my mind comes to you
I drown myself in an angry, raging stream…
                                                                           Of butterflies