All I can taste is blood.
I don’t know if it’s mine, or yours, or even hers.
I do know that my morning tea has not yet washed away the taste of your lips.
No, no it must not be yours.

You lost yours wings, and fell,
As I gained mine and began to ascend.
You passed me on your way down
and your eyes caught me,
Pulling me down with you.
I saw the pain in your eyes as you saw your wings were gone,
So I took a knife to mine,
Today is not the day I die.

We have matching scars now,
And I kiss your shoulder blades whenever they are exposed to me.
You’ve never done the same to me,
But I don’t mind.
You see yours as a curse,
And sure,
Mine are a burden,
But let it be known,
I will do almost anything for you.
I won’t die for you,
But I’ll live for you.

I don’t get feminism.
The term, that is.
When they ask, "Are you a feminist?"
I reply, “Sure.”
They nod in bobble-head approval.
“I’m also a childist and animalist”
A confounded grimace glazes over
“Huh?”
“Of course. Aren’t YOU a childist?
Aren’t YOU an animalist?”

“Uh. What do you mean?”

“Well, don’t you believe that children
and animals should be treated with love?”

“Well, naturally.”

“Well. There you go. You’re a childist
And animalist.”

"Besides,  you would extend this love
To all sentient beings, I’m assuming?”

“Ummm. Yes...”

“Well, then, you’re a masculinist too,
Just like me!”

This is about the time their cell buzzes
Or their double soy frap is ready

They whisk away

“Oh, I’m also a worldist!” I belt out

Before they exit

As I resume reading
Remaining clever, and

Alone.

If your story does not hold up in the light,  then you will spend the rest of your life in the dark.

When gentle breezes turn into gale,
     remember that you will prevail.

       You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
   Planting hope and scattering wishes,
    Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
       Flying out of the dark on
     wings of birds.
       Bridging the rippling void through
           severed words.

                Seeking...
             Reaching...
               Imploring...
            Writing...

     Be not wary of eyes that speak.
  Be not afraid of mouths that leak.

Know that our scribbles are only
   sacred to us.
       Emotions and thoughts we
           bind and truss.

  What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
     Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.

You...
      are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
      determine how far or long your
         words would span.

   Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.

So let drip your ink with little reservation...
  Let us grow from strength to strength
     as life teaches its lessons.

   Rise up and live on in these here pages,
     For here exist only
         freedom;
               not cages.

I fell headlong into a poem
And was immediately swept away
As words passed by on paddle boats
They pulled me in their wake

The sweet dew of sonnets glistened on the shore
Lined with allegory trees
Dripping with fruit of poetic glaze
As a rhythmic breeze rustles through the leaves

There was an ode of maidens in a field
Cultivating the finest of verses
With colors of yellows, pinks, blues, and reds
From amongst the rows of stanzas

The cool lapping of the waves
Brought the imagery to its peak
As the metaphoric stream I floated down
Opened up into a sea of dreams

I fell headlong into a poem
And was immediately swept away...