You breathed life in me
from the first day we met.
You gave me
a part of yourself
that I will
always hold
inside of me,
******* in a knot
so I will never lose it.

I continue to grow,
each breath of yours
adding strength to me,
leaving behind
a pleasant, warm feeling.

And everytime
I feel as though
I am about to burst,
you always know
just how to let the air out.

I can see how much
you've changed.

My whole life
you've made your house
a home
and always
invited me inside, but

you're beaten down now,
worn out and overused.

You need help
from top to bottom,
chips and cracks
lining every part of you.

Your railing is wobbly,
swaying from side to side
until one of us
can steady you.

We can't help you anymore,
we don't know what to do.

We're leading you
into someone else's hands
so they can fix you,
so they can help you.

You need to make someone else's
house into a home.

I am
the real world's
writing utensil.

From checks,
envelopes,
to contracts,
you'll find me,
not a pencil.

The only problem
with being
the real world's
writing utensil
is that I can never
erase my mistakes.

From scribbling out
to whiting out,
they never
truly disappear.

I let people
walk all over me
so much that
I needed signs put up
telling them
to keep off.

Everyone has a
love-hate relationship
with us.
One minute
we're being kissed
and the next
we're being left.

People shake us,
throw us,
use us
just to get themselves
more money.

In this game of
love and luck and life,
we lose
every time.

My insides
were so
full
when we first met

but then
you kept
squeezing and
pushing me,
using me
till the
very last drop
was gone.

Any excuse
to touch your lips
is okay by me,
even if it means
I am now
empty.

You left Scotland
when you were three.
Even though
it wasn't your choice,
you left behind
most of your family.

When you first husband died
you left the city
for a smaller, sleepier town.
You left his gravesite there.

When your second husband died
decades later,
you left your house in that town--
again, not by choice,
but you left your good health
in that old white house on the cul-de-sac.

And when you died
less than two years later,
you left us behind--
left a hole in our hearts--
you left us to live a life
without you.

But when you died,
you also left memories--
laughs smiles hugs love--
you left an impression on us.

I guess sometimes it's okay to leave
as long as you leave something good
behind.

A tad on the quiet side,
I have my articles do the talking.

Telling a story
about an event I saw;
there is nothing more thrilling.

Though my name is smaller
than the title,
I'm still a big deal.

Questions ready, pen poised--
writing is where you hear my voice.

There's layers
upon layers
of foundation
in my poems
that create
houses upon houses
for a girl who longs
to find home.

Each word
is a brick
that builds
and builds,
leaving onlookers
in awe
at the site
before them.

Each metaphor is
the cement
that holds
my words
together.

The door,
once shut,
is now open
for anyone wanting
to come inside.

And my emotions
are the roof
of these houses,
sitting atop
each and every poem
and making
each house a home
for different parts
of my soul.

Your love for me is gravity
I don't see it
but I feel it all around me
in the way it keeps me grounded
while at the same time
allows me to roam freely
and forge my own destiny.

Yet no matter how far I travel,
I will always
gravitate back to you.

We came together
because our ancestors brought
us to each other,
weaving us as one
like the way
they did with baskets,
poised and precise.

Two distinct
pieces of bamboo
skillfully woven
into one entity--
our ancestors
couldn't have known it,
but their action
changed our lives
for the better.

Tell me everything
and I'll write your words
on my skin
every inch of my body
so that even though
they'll fade
they'll always be
a part of me

Like my heart
I won't see them
but I'll feel them
pressing against my chest
each beat a reminder
that you'll always be with me

Struck by your beauty,
I try to paint you with words.
I'm a slave to you.

She is rain
in the way
you feel her
all around you,
soaking you with
everything she is,
the feel of it
reaching deep
in your bone.

She is snow,
a collection of
unique snowflakes
coming at you
in a beautiful flurry.

She is the clouds--
when she is around,
it's impossible to
overlook her presence.

She is a hurricane,
her effect on people
widespread and unavoidable;
she is a tornado
in the way she pulls you in,
wrapping you tightly
as she does in her hugs;
she is a tsunami
because she loves
with everything she's got,
a tidal wave crashing down on you.

But mostly
she is a sunny day--
warming you,
shining down on you,
letting you know
everything will be okay.

It's so **** hard to
write when I've got so many
words and sounds and sights
clogging up my mind

Glittery snow wrapping me in a hug
the sensation of losing myself in music
hearing your beautiful voice echo in my ears

I WANT TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS
but my words come out in a meager lowercase

How am I supposed to write
when all thoughts filling my mind
are of you

And yet drowning
in them
is paradise

I never knew I was
living as an
untied shoelace
my whole life until
Fate knotted us together

I hope he did a
good job because
I never want
to leave your side

I never wanted to
become an addict.

I never even wanted to
take this drug, but
my brain begged me to,
fed it into my veins
against my will.

It sends me on bad trips
every time.

I scream at both
the living
and the dead
as they belittle me.

I trip out
almost every day.

My own mind is
my dealer.
I pay with fear
as it lights me up--
ignites my worries.

My heart bangs
against its cage.
It can't take much more.

But I know
I won't quit.

I know this lifestyle
will **** me eventually.

I didn't know
what to make of you
the first time we met.

You have one of those faces
that makes me feel like
I've seen you before--
on TV, in a movie,
someone famous.

Your jokes and quick wit
had me convinced that
I'd befriended a comedienne
when first getting to know you,

but upon learning more about you,
I realized you are more of
a renowned poker player,
somehow able to make
the hand you were dealt
into something valuable.

Like Mr. Gorbachev,
you listened to Reagan:
you tore down the walls
that confined you--
that people used
to define you--
and used them
to remind you
just how fortunate you are.

Like the rest of today's celebrities,
you are penning your own story.

In the gleam
of the sun's rays
reflecting against
the lake's surface,
I see the sparkle
of your light blue eyes.

In the setting
of the sun,
too bright to
look at for too long,
I see your golden hair
through stolen glances.

In the curvature
of the moon--
a bright, white crescent tonight--
I see your radiant smile
on my walk back home.

In the writing world,
they say it's no good
to only see one muse,
but since I met you,
my vision's never been clearer.

It's true that
I'm known for causing
people to cry
from peeling away
at my many layers,

but what people
don't realize
is that
it's not always easy
bouncing back from every
tear and rip and tampering
of my being--

careless cooks and
****** shoppers taking pieces of me
that won't ever
fully heal.

But I know that
one day
a good grocery shopper
will come along
and appreciate
all the layers of me
in order to create
something beautiful.

A gentle whisper
rattles grass blades one by one.
Domino effect.

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.

All the kids
I teach tennis to
at work
have bright eyes.

Sparkling blues,
dazzling greens,
even brown eyes shine bright
on the kids at tennis camp.

There's their bright, wide eyes
soaking up the world around them--
and then there's
my dull green ones;

light ****** out
years back,
by the same world
these kids are trying to absorb.

They are so
pure
innocent
whole--

why am I
the teacher
in this situation?
I am nothing but

tarnished
corrupted
broke
and broken.

The sad part is
these kids can't even
teach me how to be
whole again because

you didn't know
you were whole
until the world finally
breaks you.

You see so much more
when you
look
at the clouds
instead of
watching them.

Like the girl
shapeshifting an
infinite amount of times
for everyone
looking up to her.

First she's seen
tending to her sister,
a role model,
the sun offering
a warm glow
around her figure.

Now she's
laughing and playing,
her cloud quickly
expanding and gaining volume--
about to burst with
excitement.

And then she's
something all her own;
something indescribably amazing--
like you've seen it before,
but can never put
a word to what
exactly she's
showing you.  

They say you see
what you want
when looking at clouds,
but I think
it's more of
what you need.

We never wanted
to let you go,
but we knew it was
inevitable.

We tightened our grip
around your smooth, white ribbon;
a futile attempt to
keep you with us
just a few moments longer,
even though you
silently begged us
to let you go.

You were there
to brighten up all our milestones--
every birthday,
every graduation,
every wedding.

These thoughts
consumed our minds
as we slowly relented;
painfully and agonizingly
loosened our grip on
your long ribbon.

You left us
so gracefully, so gently--
our eyes never left you
as you defied gravity
while we remained
tethered to the ground.

The sun reflected
off your shiny blue roundness,
creating a small, quick
flash of light--
a wink or a smile,
your final goodbye,
a promise of reunion.

We'll think of you,
a lot at first,
and then from time to time;
wondering where you ended up
or if you found company
in the sky,
above the clouds.

But we'll know that
letting you go was
the right thing to do--
you're now liberated,
completely and utterly
free.

Long, winding road;
a busy street,
cars of every color
drive close together
like a school of fish
navigating through the ocean.

Dotted white lines
quickly become solid,
preventing the cars from
switching lanes...

we were supposed to be
over one to the right.

Cursing, then flooring,
and finally U-turning,
you maneuver your car
back around to
get to our destination.

Talking, singing, laughing--
the frustration of
missing our turn
dissipates quickly with
each other's company.

It's always a pleasure
getting lost with you--

every missed turn
is a new adventure,
and every wrong turn
reminds me how right
it feels being next to you.

The music queues up on a
never-ending loop--
out of sight,
the robins begin
chirping out a song
nearly as beautiful
as their light orange bellies.

The trees begin to dance,
swept up by a
crisp spring breeze;
thin branches swaying
in time to the
robins' sweet harmony.

More birds join in
on the song,
layering this melody
in a way that
no music studio ever could;

all the while
vibrant green leaves
flutter, and allow themselves
to be led by the enticing wind
in yet another dance.

You're the ink I bleed--
pencil hitting paper,
the catharsis that I need;
you're in my erasings, all my cross-outs
constantly showing me
new perspectives and alternate routes;
you're the break

between each stanza;
every symbol I decide to make;
you're the rare poems I write in rhyme
(partly because of how
musical you are from time to time);
you're the answer to my writer's block,
making up for all those minutes
spent staring at the clock.

Most obviously, you're the reason I write today--
you're every word I've ever written
and every word I'm about to say.

The dinner tray
that you spray painted gold,
behind the sink, where you set it to lay,
represents nothing more than friendship gone cold.

Once an ugly brown,
now pretty on the outside--
but we chipped it away, wore it all down;
found the ugly you tried desperately to hide.

Messy, lying, manipulative
your grand façade faded quick,
it was rather short-lived:
your combative nature did just the trick.

Friendship's about giving and taking.
We too late heard the tray's silent warning
about the one who spawned its making.
It dawned on us suddenly, like sun in the morning:

trays are meant to maximize gain
you took too much, gave too little;
over and over, a song's sad refrain.

You've now lost your chance to meet us in the middle.

The guitar was strummed
deftly; fingers moving
carefully yet effortlessly
across the instrument's
smooth, wooden neck,
creating a soft and splendid melody.

We stared at the musician as he
lay on the white-tiled floor, enraptured--
we unknowingly formed a circle around him,
as if he were the sun and we were
the planets revolving incessantly around his pull.

Then the thunder outside joined in,
invisible drums pounded by an invisible drummer,
making our melody louder, stronger.
A downpour followed, drenching the dark night
in streams and puddles; all the while
adding the quickened pace of maracas
to our song.

The makeshift band played in harmony,
the audience watched in dazzled awe--
and suddenly the lightning came,
capturing this incredible moment
with the flash of a camera.

Homemade posters line the walls
of my basement—
white computer paper dominated by
once-vibrant crayon scribbles
and once-funny inside jokes
now faded and stupid
with the years of neglect.

The posters used to be
the only thing hanging
over my head. But
I’ve outgrown them;
torn each one down with
quick, decisive tugs
and replaced them…

I should be used to this by now--

I've been left so many times
in the past,
it's no wonder that
my right hand is inferior.

I never liked Goodbyes;
I'm more of a
"see ya later"
type of person,
because it holds the
(empty) promise
of future reunion.

"Goodbye" is foreign
on my tongue. I've
said it my
fair share of times,
each one being
harder than the last.

This Goodbye will be
the most difficult of them all, which
is why I cannot will myself
to say it;
to have those
two dreaded syllables
leave my lips
and enter the air,
making your departure
from my life
real.

I don't want you to go,
but I know that
I'm weighing you down
instead of boosting you up;
holding you back
instead of pushing you forward.

So here we are, and
I'm about to say it, and
the word is living in the back of my throat and
about to exit my mouth and--

I stop.

And "see ya later" comes out instead.

Because I'm not ready
to give you up just yet.

The routine started, and
the world around me stopped.

Intricate arm and legwork
carefully layered to create a
smooth rhythm. She moved
in time with the music,
she was the music;
her body a vital instrument
for this Dream Girls song.

She was a vision--
captivating,
liberating,
invigorating--

my head spun
with every pirouette;
heart leapt
with her graceful jumps.

A great love radiated
from her entire being.
I saw it in her eyes as she danced.

I felt it in my heart as she danced.

I'm walking out of
the Nordstrom Rack store,
sky as dark as the
asphalt of the parking lot
under my sneakers. I'm
not wearing a jacket even though
the Weather App said it feels like
twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside.

But I'm not that cold--
my hands are still warm
from the laborious inventory work
I wound up excelling at.

I can't say I'm surprised, though.
I was born and raised
on hard work; knew it
before I knew my ABCs.

My thumbs are a deep pink,
angered from picking up
shoe after shoe after shoe
for nearly five hours. Deep
grooves and torn skin
accent the pink hue.

As I stare at my
worn-out fingers,
I can't help but wonder
if this is what I'll
end up doing with my life...

Am I meant to
follow the career path
laid down for me
by my family? Will I one day
inherit my father's tough,
callused hands; or his father's
overworked knees--
all from pushing my body
to its limits just to
barely make it by?

A, B, C, D--
will I eventually fulfill
A Blue Collar Destiny?

I'm sorry my clothes
smell like cigarettes
even though they're
newly washed;
I don't smoke, I promise--
I don't do my own laundry
when I'm at home

And I hate that
I am now familiar
with the disgusting,
skunky odor of ****
even though I've never
seen a blunt with my own eyes

But yet I still know
how it feels to be addicted--
not to a drug, to a person--
the effects are just the same.

It's like I need you to be
whole; a part of me is
missing when you're
not near--and God,
it hurts sometimes!

The anxious jitters
overcome me, eyes
cold and unnerving,
thoughts more
and more
convoluted
by the minute.

No, I've never smoked,
but that doesn't mean
I'm unaffected.

Secondhand smoke
has the power
to ****, too, you know...

I should be studying,
since I have my first formal final
in three days, but I
have too much on my mind right now.

It's probably due in part to
procrastination, but these
thoughts have been
swirling around my head for
awhile, impatiently waiting
to be flushed out.

I often look back at
old photos, old memories--
comparing my old self to
who I am now.

The obvious changes grab me first:
watching the multi-colored braces
disappear; followed shortly by
that stubborn baby fat; the
gradual transition from
softball bats to tennis rackets.

Only recently have I noticed
the evolution of a smile.
It's difficult to explain, really,
but the difference is definitely there.

The younger smiles are...less...
burdened, for lack of better words--
less weighed down. Now I'm
not saying that
smiles become less
radiant and genuine
as we get older,

I'm just trying to point out
that the innocence is gone--
it's as if our smiles
sport our scars too;
as if our lips are saying
"This is what the real world
has turned us into."

The gentle falling
of leaves

Orange, yellow, and
red--my favorite color

As I watch them in fascination--
gravity slowly and carelessly
pulling them to the ground--
I feel you nearby.

The wind rattles the trees
sends my hair whipping wildly
behind me

It snatches a paper
from my hand

I bend to pick it up, and
under the wind's howls,
your voice--
that soft, lulling melody
finds its way in my ears.
I flinch in surprise because

It's been seven years
since I saw you last,
and yet
you still follow me
wherever I go.

*Thank you for never really leaving me

I.
You came upon me so suddenly--
a tornado,
a burst of energy--
I couldn't help but be swept up by
your pull

You tore me up
chewed me up
and spit me out
after spinning me around
mercilessly;
the circumlocution
making me dizzy

I had absolutely
nothing left.
I gave you everything
I had--
my heart and soul--
****** up by your vortex
never to be seen again

But it was my fault too,
I was too
curious, too anxious;
I dove in your storm too quickly

After all,
I'm just a
stormchaser
looking for
company
in the
oddest of places.

II.**
A new, different storm
approaching--
barreling through,
electric--
full of
life

Surrounded by my new storm
impossible to
escape its presence
but I'm not worried:
choosing to stay
by it

After all,
I'm just a
stormchaser
looking for
company
in the
oddest of places

Clouds are
rolling in,
this beautiful storm
coming my way.
Only thing I have to say is
"Bring on the rain."

I want to taste
the beer lingering on your lips,
even though
I've never drunk alcohol before.

You drank a Corona.
My dad always told me
Budweiser was the best.

I don't need
beer or wine or *****
to get the
content and happy buzz
I get from you.

Just a glimpse;
a fleeting look
into your dark,
brooding eyes
is enough to leave me
drunk all day long.

I know that
one taste of you
will be enough to
black me out.

The cool fall air mercilessly nips
at my uncovered shins;
I silently curse myself
for not wearing pants.

Velvet night envelops
our little world.
Stars, like freckles on cheeks,
dot the night sky in a random
yet mesmerizing pattern.

I approach our building.
It's a habit now--
my neck automatically ***** back,
searching desperately for the light above.

No, not the stars' light
coming from miles and miles away;
I crave the artificial yellow light
of your room, to assure me
that you're there.

I know it's crazy and stupid
(and definitely creepy)
of me to do that,
but I just can't help it.

You're supposed to
make a wish
on a shooting star,
but I'm using
your light instead.

Saying it aloud won't
make it come true,
but now I've got
nothing to lose.

My wish every night
as I walk back home
is that one of these days
you'll be searching for me
too.

Walk in, close the curtain behind you...
Reality doesn't follow you in here.

Sit down, look at the camera.
All that matters is this one moment.

3, 2, 1 the flash goes off
click...click...click...

Nowadays, this is the only place  
I'm genuinely happy.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

whiter than the purest milk,
or untouched snow.
Smooth and chalky,
as if crafted by a potter.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

crushed under the weight
of a fallen frame containing
the oldest photo
of my friend and I.

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

I'm sorry to say you've suffered
from the same fate
as my
friendship...

O beautiful seashell,
sitting atop my dresser--

she shattered us into
dozens of tiny pieces,
and left me as the only fool
bothering to pick them up.

Everyone writes her off as a nobody,
but it's impossible not to feel her presence.

Eyes cast downward, always wearing a troubled look--
it's obvious she's got a lot on her mind.

Her negativity is a disease,
it infects everyone around her.

It's ironic that her name is Faith...
because she doesn't seem to have any.

I never expected it to happen to me.
I guess nobody does really;
everything seems fine one day, but the next--
Nothing.

Here I am,
staring out my window every night
with this ridiculous sense of false hope
just waiting for the words to come.

I wait and wait,
and wait and wait,
the hope diminishing by the day--
Oh god, am I out of poetic language?

No, they've got to be there.
Somewhere. So I go back to waiting.
But they never came...
*You never came...