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"Be careful who you call a King"**

All the romantic girls want a 'knight in shining armour'
All princesses want some noble king to sweep them off their feet
All the bad girls want a rebel who's mean with lots of green
Well... I'm all three

I want the joker
Who can outwit the knight in a fight with only his words
Who can make the king laugh with accents and gestures so absurd
Who can cause the rebel to cry and fly away like a scared little bird
I want the joker

I'm a poet
I need the joker to take away the sadness in the words I write
I need the joker to willingly fight for me with his own life
I need the joker to stand tall and proud, yet admit when he's not right
I need the joker to love me fully, unbiasedly and with all his might
I'm a poet

Knights are overrated
Kings are old and outdated
Rebels are deathly fated

Jokers are an eternity
Cause laughter can surely never die
Jokers are everything
Cause my heart will surely never cry
Be the barcode on my bra strap so maybe
I can finally be sellable skinny. Be my relationship goal,
the text to check outside my door, the 5k, 140 character post
about a teenage dream ****** through low brightness screens.
Be the slam poet screaming whiny, new written love songs
on the shareable Facebook post. And maybe I’m just as bad,
but at least I recognize when my eyes fall numb from staring
at self-expression turned self-obsession. Maybe it’s Jack talking back
through my shot glass or maybe it’s the blacklight absorbed
into my skin. Or maybe it’s a girl in a “vintage” dress just sizing out
bigger than the edges already cut out for her. Maybe it’s me
bending backwards over chivalry and **** coming back from the 90’s.
Don’t blame me for biting into the media sandwich that is magazines
and the indecision of being too clingy if I just freakin’ called you.
Cause picking up the phone is a lot more risky than the kissy-face emoji
at the end of a message. Don’t blame me for consuming
tissue paper lies designed to target my own vulnerability, or my lack
of understanding the truth because all everyone
has ever told me is just a step in the manipulation blueprint
to get what they want, or just get me to bed. I only trust old photographs,
things I wrote down when I couldn’t sleep, my mom, and the dirt
I used to bury my own reflection. Be the 50% off on my receipt
just so I know I got something off. Be the nicotine in my cigarette,
the Blink 182 voice inside my head, the joints that hold me up
where I stand, and maybe I’ll finally know who I am.
I'm that small voice inside your head telling you what to do.
Sometimes you're quiet enough to listen to me.
Sometimes you're aware enough to be still and feel me.
Sometimes you can't stop the howling winds within your mind.
You get wrapped up inside the tornado of thought, swirling through every nerve of your whole body, getting increasingly worse as new thoughts continue to overtake your mind, thoughts as abundant as raindrops falling upon a vast, dark and stormy ocean, your body the small helpless vessel being consumed by the unknown with your poor, lost soul trapped deep inside.
Luckily that's only sometimes.

I am the voice that has been with you since before you were born.
I am your imagination, your spirit, supplier of mystique and magic of all the right kind.
I am the words you cannot speak.
I am the music you cannot voice.
I am the very image you cannot express, awaiting to be released from the intricacy of your mind.

It's time to let go.
Let me escape the safety of inside.
I am ready for the world to see the work you have kept cooped up after all this time.

Inhale deeply, exhale slowly.
Stop selfishly holding me for yourself, be rid of your pride.
You are ready for the beauty hidden within to paint the world, show your love to the outside.
Let them see how you see, feel as you feel, let your inner light shine brightly upon the darkest of times.
Be refreshed, be renewed, be still and know my voice will always be your inspirational guide.
© 2014 Ashley Jean.
All rights reserved.
Intellectual property of the author.
No one is innocent,
save for the child,
laughing at the sea.

Throw your bones in the garden
and redden as rain raises a finger,
calcium white,

it is sharp and cold
on this day of recollection,
you’re striding through the garden

plucking corpses.
Place the cradle on the table,
the flowers need no water.

Forever their bodies limp,
yet quivering in you a survival
that mocks your spoiled soul.

What’s done is done.
The plight of realization
has halted the burgeoning summer.

Years fuse to responsibility,
and you do not shine,
but collapse.
 Dec 2014 Kelsey Doolittle

                       wishing, for
                              your writes to be
                                noticed•simple sign
                             that they have not been
                          missed•with every view
                     and every like•your popu-
               larity does spike•somewhat
          places your art on the poetry
      map•between major players,     
  you close the gap•constantly      
checking to see  who's been              
reading•you're always deli-               
ghted to see the 'yellow                      
•a wish...                            
    for those who                             
     are writ-                    

secretly hope not only for your words to be
reaching far and wide, but also... trending
* the above does not apply to everyone here.
My name once whispered
from your lips,
has been silenced by apathy.
The intimacy that we shared,
crashed into tragedy.

Your touch that always
calmed my nerves,
rages like a stormy sea.
Kisses taste of hesitation,
instead of desire for me.

I feel the bond that
tied our souls,
burning all around.
And the  dreams that we shared,
defeated on the ground.
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