I told him I loved yellow roses
and dandelions.
we danced across the campus like lovers;
I talked, he didn't.
He didn't need to.
Interwoven fingers, high hopes, and
the pages of my sketchbook mixed with tears,
stained with charcoal. The same expression used by primitive men
in the caves of the world.
Lacking words, but speaking wonders. I asked him
to say what he meant, and I saw it in his eyes. He was
never able to recite lectures about love but he knew,
because he remembered the yellow roses; and the beauty
of the weeds.

There are times when
I think that I can see each
individual atom spinning on its axis,
moving around on solid objects. It has
never rained this hard, and my heart has
never felt so secure. He told me Steven King
married a poet. He spoke naturally of spain,
and wondered if it looked the same
as the pictures.
Today my art teacher asked us to see
life in anything but symbols. "What if a face
is no longer a face", she said.
"But something you
have never seen before."
I told him
I don't dream
in symbols.
It has never rained this hard,
and I have never once
been happier. But this nausea
has lasted for days
and I can't get it out of my mind.
I want to bleed into sheets and
sheets of paper and place my mark as permanent.
For what is blood,
a symbol? No.
Because when I bleed
I think that I can see the atoms. floating though
the sea of whatever you call it
and I cry.
When blood mixes with tears
you have strength again.
Will it show you, that I am not a symbol?
It has never rained this hard.

I am still amazed
that the gentle white seeds
and the vibrant, alive yellow petals
are the same flower. I feel
both against my fingertips,
and realize how different they feel. I
am in love with it's gentle touch,
but filled with sorrow as the seeds
fly away with the wind. I saw a
young child, blowing away
the seeds of the dead "flower"; creating new
weeds that will blossom yet again.

I never noticed the complexity of the forest
And the difference between the branches
Some forbidden from growth
Hindered by their sisters
So they grow into different shapes
Avoiding the obstacles’ as they come
And I, I am the artist
And she is the forbidden ocean
I can’t seem to put her on paper
The winds catch my pencil
And I am left to drown in the waves
Until I remember that the tide goes down
And I can swim to the trees.

I waited for you to come along
I gently asked you to leave
But your presence is always on my mind
You're a boulder collapsing my lungs
And you're the silence as I try not to notice
You're the lurking beast of reality
That is ever so daunting
You are the epitome of disaster
You are the papers, overflowing the waste basket
That i have crumpled and stained
You are the screeching sound; heard perfectly
Over a room filled with voices
You are the pain in my stomach
When my life folds in on itself
The tender skin of my abdomen
The fire inside my throat
The numbness of my limbs
The whisper that says "You're not worth this"
The itch to run;
The second glance
Over my shoulder
That allows me to realize
You don't even exist.

Your hair was shorter than I remembered
Your figure slimmer and very different
from this past December
You're tears fused with the forrest rain
And flew off your hair as you ran through the brush
Your voice, piercing and shrieking in pain


Starring directly into the sun,  your silhouette appeared
I never thought I would run from you
It was then that I knew I needed him here
He was waiting with open arms where the sun met the rain
A part of the woods I had never been
I entangled myself in his arms; ran my fingers through his mane

It was then that you realized, this time I wasn't coming back.

We sat behind the book stacks
and talked about our lives,
to an audience of novels.
You made funny noises
and talked about Australia.
I emptied my thoughts to the shelves
and draped my emotions over the light fixtures.
You were awkward,
you bit my lip when I kissed you.
I loved it.
I want you to feel my admiration.
Open your doors
and let me inside.
Lay with me behind the stacks
and value our existence.
Libraries carry many stories.