I want to tell you,
Everything,
But I'll never,
Get the chance,
Because,
When I see you,
(Almost never),
The words catch,
In my throat,
My hands,
Won't stop shaking,
And when I look at you,
Your eyes burn me,
Alive.

If I was a volcano
Erupting melancholy
Would you stay
'til I calm down?

When people read my poetry
they all have the same question
"Why does your poetry have to be so sad?"
The question used to offend me
I used to think that question deserved an answer
I even started changing the kind of poems I wrote to please the people who read them
I was satisfied with my work
but it wasn't really me
I began to feel guilty
I began to feel like a fraud
Charles Bukowski once wrote
"a good writer must simply let it all go, regardless"
I'm sure he meant for those words to mean something else but for me
it was as if I was being reminded to stop allowing other people to have control over my writing
It's not every day I gain advice from someone who has passed on years before I was ever born
I no longer feel the need to answer everybody's question
Hell I even ask myself from time to time
"Mandie, why must your poetry be so sad?"
Depression is another language to me
I speak it well
I write it well
I know it well
Bottom line
if my poetry is too sad for you
then don't read it

Breath in.
Breath out.
You're fine.
For now.
But how long can I stay hidden?
Soon they will find me.
I don't know how much longer I can bare this pain.
Its more than just emotional,
Its physical too.
But I have to hide it.
The bruises on my arms,
"I just fell."
The scratches and cuts on me,
"It was my cat."
Lies.
It was them.
My parents.

they buried your bones,
but not what was inside them.
they buried your bones,
but they didn't
they couldn't
bury your light, your love,
the story you told while breath was still yours
they didn't
they couldn't bury your laughter,
your song,
the memories the ones who loved you keep.
they buried your bones
but they didn't
they couldn't bury you,
for you are not there,
in those underground houses of dirt.
you are in the hearts of those who loved you,
in the faces of your children,
in your grandchildren's eyes.
you are in the words you said,
the places your feet touched.
you are everywhere
everywhere
everywhere

Some mornings I wake up tired
before the fire of the sun eats
the mist covering the dust
on the long road my feet travel
each day wishing I was asleep still
just like a snake in an old tire
dreaming of young boys rolling
me over and over down a steep hill
again, forever and ever, amen.

if, while on the other side of the world,
you buy me a book
and post it to me
along with the words
'i read this and i thought of you
and i knew you had to read it too'
then what else is left for me to do
except
         to
           fall
               in
                 love
                       with
                              you.

it was no longer even a question
he was there
he was what I wanted
and I was going to do
everything in my power
to make him believe
that I was his

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic