Killing me harshly is the pleasure of a thousand lullabies
And am I the one that pleases thee
Till I am standing not on my feet but on all of my limbs
Little ****** of sensation filter their way into your soul
Yawning at a time like this doesn't bode well for your aspirations
Never mind the things that seep out of your mind.

Fragile glass fingertips grace the pillows of nothing
Racing to feel again and touch something
Any excuses to sensationalize your memories
Negating the reality of past experiences
Clinging to the thought of a paradise
Expunging the ruby tears that rain down from your eyelids
Smothering the lipid-laced treats that linger on the tongue

More than ever shall we dance again
Over the river bending into the graveyard
Rolling down the grassy hills
Across the metamorphosis of a Tiger Lilly
Let me bloom into the unknown
Escape the neglect of myself.
Sooth the soul and let it keep fluttering

The pears
bend the
crooked branches—
flushed
and drowsy
with sugar.

The juice waits
for something—
for its skin
to be bruised
for a mouth
to bite in
and when done
waiting—
suffer the wind
do what must
be done.

Teaching right from wrong
for a world made kinder—
a fork in your road.

Act 1

The play Dry Humor
was a success—
people laughed,
gasped,
clutched their chests
at all the right moments.

Then, Act 2

The fall
was not scripted—
the crack of bone,
a fractured femur
was all too real,
too sharp,
cutting through the lights,
the crowd,
the silence.

They called
for the understudy,
told them
to be ready.

The director
leaned in—
You know what it means
when we ask you to break a leg,
right?

Speak the word [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl]—
standing tall as a mountain,
unwavering with reverence and respect
and unparalleled demeanor.

Dire le mot [fɔʁmidabl]—
avec la caresse d’une brise,
pour mettre tranquille un coeur
dans le silence d’un abri fidèle.

Speak the word
and take up the sword—
dire le mot
et prendre le bouclier.

Pour elle,
fille de clan—
je prendrai les deux.
For her,
precious daughter of the clan—
I will be both,
un ami [fɔʁmidabl],
a [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl] friend.

I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

do you know the weight of it?
clawing your way up
test after test,
year after year,
to be the perfect reflection of the dreams they have for you,
those that are now your own.
where your worth now hangs.

when they see the prize,
they say, 'oh it comes so easily to her'

Easily?

i bled for this.
i screamt for this.
and my mind?
it whispers
'this is just what you're supposed to do'
you are 'gifted'
its your mere responsibility.
nothing to celebrate. nothing special.

isnt it?