The yellow crescent
overlooks America.
Washington's smile.

Give me your wounded; I can heal their ills.
I spin miracles like tailors spin thread.
I cure bleeding, sneezing, quaking with chills—
believe it or not, I can show you the dead.
Very few can handle the magic I spawn—
I bend the rules as blacksmiths do metals.
My power is strange, running dusk to dawn;
it’s gained from people, pencils, even rose petals.
All it takes is a wave of the hand:
I swirl words on paper—an artist mixing paint.
Not witchcraft, yet some pieces are still banned;
each and every writer isn’t a saint.
Some claim our magic is fading away,
but really we’re thinking up more words to say.

Gently clutching these
Pages, your heart touches mine.
You hold a place there.

One, two, three...
One, two, three...
Don't look down now;
Eyes on you partner's;
No, right turn first.

I can't get these moves down,
no matter how hard I try.

A puppet
being maneuvered by
a drunk ventriloquist--
I move about the floor
clumsily, never in the
right place.

Don't look down now

Shame and embarrassment
burn my cheeks.  
My neck snaps downward;
a sunflower going
out of its way
to be close to the sun.

Eyes on your partner's

My feet won't cooperate.
I can't help but
look at them:
they're made for
walking and running;
my feet don't like
being told what to do--
teenagers in a
rebellious phase.

No, right turn first*

I slowly rotate in a circle
(The wrong way, of course)
and everyone around me
belongs here,
fits in,
knows what to do.

A circle in a room
full of squares--
I don't belong here;
I'm left out.

You try to tell yourself
"I'm just confused and all,"
but really
you're delusional:

Your insides quickly
fill with dread
as irrational thoughts
violate your head.

"You're a selfish idiot;
you think your friends really care?"
"You'll never amount to anything--
just thought that I should share."

The seeds of worry have been planted
deep inside your core;
sprouting and growing and spreading,
it's more difficult to remove them than before.

You try your best to combat the thoughts--
a steep mountain you need to climb--
getting back to normal
takes a decent amount of time.

Energy dwindles fast as
you try to win this inner debate.
You feel like such a freak show--
an animal in a crate.

You try to tell yourself
the worries are all wrong,
but the only thing you think is
"God, why is this taking me so long?"

And when you've finally won,
after all is said and done,
you realize one thing about these episodes:
you can't control what happens to you--
*it's twisted voodoo!

Turn off my light
and turn on my side.
Silence engulfs me
and my room--

until a car zooms by,
outside my window,
its black tires gliding
over the asphalt road--
the start of my very own
nighttime symphony.

More and more cars
ride along my street.
Every once in awhile
a motorcycle vrooms on past;
I feel myself beginning to
transcend from consciousness
into the world of dreams.

Tires screech,
horns blare--
with this,
the loud, lively world outside
has successfully lulled me
to sleep.

It was my first nighttime beach trip.

Monday night, ten-thirty PM:
rather than reading
in my pajamas,
I was walking
along the shore.

The cool, damp sand
beneath my bare feet
sharply contrasted the
unbearable heat of
the same ground
just hours earlier.

A deep black
consumed the beach--
except for the
stars' shimmering light.

They seemed to cover
every square inch
of the dark sky--
like a string of
little white lights
hanging on the limbs
of a Christmas tree.

It was magnificent--
a work of art,
something out of a museum--
I'd never seen
anything like it.

My brother and our friend
were watching the tide
gently roll in;
their attention was focused
downward, but mine
was always on the stars--

I saw more than stars;
I saw the eyes of
my four angels
shining down on me,
their twinkle
letting me know
they've been watching over me
all along.

The wind started
to pick up steadily,
I didn't have a jacket,
but I was warm.

I was home.