you are my favorite non-fiction
and darling, I've lived fantasies...
I have fictionalized feelings...

but what we shared was unstaged
-unscripted
something found in between the sheets and "I'm sorry's"

we redefined the line
we cut the strings
found ourselves lost amidst the friends and the lovers

like the rough draft of a Hemingway novel.

what we are is made for the storybooks, my sweet.

we witnessed monotony and wrote of miracles
never intoxicated, but always impaired

we could overflow libraries-
flood them with our stories of how the sea swallowed up * all those * l i v e s...
and we had barely missed making history

we begged the other to simply save us...

starving for the intrigue of a good fiction
- dying to live a story worth telling...

Foolish Romantic
Burn Your Polaroids
For The Hopes Held There
Have Become Void.
Hold Out Your Hands
To Receive Your Sight
Can't You See
You've Been Robbed Blind?
Just A Kid Caught In The Cookie Jar
You Stand On Tip Toes
"Reach For The Stars"?

...

Foolish Romantic
Put Away Your Pen
Freedom Is Fool's Talk
Revolution- A Sin
And Lips Laced With Leftover Listerine?
Darling, Love Comes With Bad Breath
And The Smell Of Bodies
You Hope It Feels Like When Worlds Collide
But There's Pain In Tomorrow
Want For Naught But The Night.

(July 13, 2008)

I want to be married in a graveyard.

Buried next to my closest of kin.

Speak our vows amongst the headstones.

Life should end where it begins.

She cracked the cover. It should have been cloaked in dust by now. But it had been on display, like the rest. Her life was a bookshelf display of materialism and pretentiousness.

Holy Bible.

It wasn't exactly the latest issue of Vogue, a cover she had cracked at least once every month of the last year. She clumsily flipped through the pages... unsure of which might hold the hope to which she so desperately needed to cling.

She wasn't exactly a stranger to Religion. It was nothing to "try on for size." It was something in which she had been born and raised. Easy as breathing. Faith, on the other hand, wasn't so easy to find. In between the to-do lists, the future plans, and the hard-earned paychecks, she didn't invest much in a provider she couldn't see. Or was it, be?

Ecclesiastes was repetitive.
Proverbs, a bit too dry.

She settled for something short. simple. terse. She wasn't sure what she was even looking for, after all.

James.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God..." A good start. "Who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him." Somewhat reassuring.

She breathed the slightest sigh of relief, or was it a snort?

Continued.

"But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind."

The catch.  A l w a y s   a   c a t c h.  

She closed the book, tucked it neatly in between two notebooks, her real bibles. Reluctantly, returning to the reality of unpaid bills and a broken heart.

You listen but are incapable of (truly) hearing.
You say you're sorry but, even to yourself, can't explain what the words mean.
The truth is...
We're just empty shells of people.
We walk through halls: judged, misunderstood.
We accept the inevitable: that life is unfair and no one owes anyone a single kindness.
The truth is...
Kindness is a blessing. It's a patch, but it can't mend a broken heart.
Kindness can't rewind our lives.
Kindness helps us through each day, but Your kindness is no substitute for Their love.
The truth is...
You say, "It will all be ok." And, we know this.
We keep to the maximum dosage, the guns are kept unloaded, razors are left to their proper use.
The truth is...
We WILL be ok, because there is nothing else we know to be.

(May 2010)

I fear that each movement we make is becoming a flinch or a cringe.
As though the meaning of the words has been lost in translation- or, perhaps, in repetition.
I feel we neglect the things we need to say and repeat the things we already know to be true.
Monotony is I Love You.
Sincerity is God, I Adore You.

...

Perhaps it's not about words anymore.
Perhaps it's that longing looks have shifted to mere glances.
That special occasions have been taken for granted.
Perhaps it's no longer about beginnings.
Yet, not quite about ends.
Less about the heartbreaks; but more about heartbends.

...

The fear is that lover's hearts don't come in pairs.
That once the first is broken, there are no spares.
I believe that everyone's greatest fear...
After the words have been written...
After the books have been closed...
The goodbye's have been said...
Is being forgotten.

...

Monotony is singularity.
However;
Sincerity is, at the end of time, the ability to say that we were never truly alone.
(D 31:6)

(June 27, 2010)

If I spilled our story upon pages for all the world to read,
It would never change the fact that you have damaged me.
No, words cannot restore to me that which I have lost,
They only amplify my actions and what their fleeting pleasures cost.
I cannot write a love poem that will negate all the rest,
To vent with pen and paper, removes no burden from chest.
Constructing songs of stricken stanzas will do nothing for my soul,
For I'm missing too many pieces, I'll surely die before I'm whole.
But laughter will be my medicine because, to me, you were a drug,
And undeniable addiction – merely poison in my lungs.
Oh, I knew you'd never catch me, not that you'd cause my fall,
My words to you spoke volumes, whereas yours meant nothing at all.
I realize these lines change nothing … for I cannot write this off,
But I'll waste ink with the efforts, in hopes of moving on.

Dear _,

You mean more to me than any word, poem, or lyric, whether it was written by me or by Poe himself, could ever convey. The principle of "actions speaking louder than words" could never be emphasized enough when it comes to love. Writing love poems is as effortless as breathing for me. It sounds as though I am trying to dim any previous feelings I’ve felt for another, but if those feelings were still an issue you would see them in the way I now carry myself around that person, the tones of my voice when I now speak of that person, not in the way I had previously written about that person. I write for the sake of writing most times.

Anyone can write a love poem for anyone- about anyone- to anyone. I don’t want that to be what we are all about: words. I want to love you with my actions. I want to love you with my silences. I want you to know that it is not in my poems that my true affections can be seen but in my glances and in my gestures. Love, I don’t want you to be my muse; I just want you to be mine.
Sincerely yours,

KM

laugh with me
at these childish mistakes
innocence is bliss
...or so they say.

for we are young
but not quite as free
as this, our love,
demands us to be

for you must live
and to live, must leave
and a companion to you
I cannot be

but I cannot ask
for you to stay
"I'll wait for you"
is too easy to say

but soon we'll look back
on these memories
for love stories like this
make life worth living.

If consistency makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.

If it is pain,
then I once was one.

If it is love,
then why am I not still one?

Is true happiness not enough to fill an artist?

Is there more inspiration to be found in the dark- when there is nothing to see and everything to feel?

Has any artist ever been truly happy?

Must one suffer for their art?
More so, must art be a burden?
Then, was Christ, himself, an artist?

(My God, the burden he had to bear.)

Was Nietzsche right- that, poets exploit their experiences?

Why do we deprive ourselves of contentment, of sleep, of peace of mind?
Why do we **** our own bodies, poison our livers, starve our own souls in the pursuit of a muse?

We are, all of us, restless,
half-empty,
half-witted,
half-hearted,
fools,
that have fallen in love with pretty words.

Idolators, we are.

Sometimes, I wonder, if we're afraid that silence can ****.
Or that, if we're not screaming at the top of our lungs, we're not alive.

Idle pens are handicaps.
Idle minds- cancer.

We're all dying not to become utilitarians.
Ugly.
Artless.
lifeless?

We'll die just to hold onto the shadow of our own hopes and dreams.

If it is commitment that makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.

If it is wreck-lessness,
then I once was one.

If it is thoughtful articulation,
then why am I not still one?

I now know that,
I am not an artist.

I will not break my own heart.

I will not cut my own throat just to amplify my voice.

black top hats and heretical clowns
surprise! the circus is back in town
ladies and Gentlemen- we've a show tonight
so bed the kids and dim the lights

hotel ballrooms and cheap champagne
silhouettes of Falsehood and the infamous Fame
a gallery of harlots and libertines
blessed with the curse of controversy

suicidal salvations and casualties
religion built the bomb that burned the buildings
a ballet of East making martyr of West
they pulled their own trigger- shot themselves in the chest

creaky pulpits and dusty pews
a prayer to be one of the Chosen Few
but holy water won't cleanse these Sins
in time, all shows must come to an end

so bed the kids and dim the lights
it's time for a panicked revival tonight
clasp your hands- bound by rosary beads
baptism- your wants, prostitution- your needs.

A sky of collision,
Filled with smoke, colored black.
Not one given chance,
To stop; to look back.

Countless persons are crying,
Panicked; in haste.
Screams can be heard,
Amongst all the waste.

Buildings and Bodies,
Tinged by the tears.
Mere fractions of seconds,
Confirmed the world's fears.

The sirens are sounding,
Time; standing still.
It seems as though God,
And Fate made a deal.

But who is to blame,
When Truth, himself, lied?
The towers are falling,
When worlds collide.

I met Mr. Warhol the other day,
His eyes were tired; his hair, gone gray.
He took my hand as we walked along,
And I heard him hum a tuneless song.
I asked him how it felt to die,
He turned to meet me with a sigh.
He said it was whiplash and gasoline,
"It burns your nose and makes you sneeze."
I asked him if he missed his art,
He kissed my cheek and stopped my heart.
"Child, what I miss the most is life,
Living, loving, the thrill of lime-light.
But, throwing caution to the wind won't make you brave,
One day we'll all share a grave."
He held my hand and raised it high,
Then said, "Now dear, go paint the sky."
And that's when my alarm began to ring,
Awaking me from my Wonderland dreams.

This is life. No, this is living happening in this pigeon polluted plaza currently overflowing with tourists, photographers, and Hispanic boys on skateboards. Behind me, I hear the laughter of tiny children playing in the fountains; the very sound of life itself.

Oh, how I wish I were a photographer, able to take the one picture that would convey the thousand words I so desperately want to write. There is a story to be told here; a story so beautiful, I feel absolutely incapable of
telling it. For not only do I find myself at a loss as a narrator, but I realize the impossibility of learning enough to do such a story justice; to convey fully the history of this place and of it's people.

For instance, the dingy looking woman in mismatched clothing, leather bag slung carelessly over her left shoulder, eyes - bloodshot, and breath - rank, who just walked over to inquire whether or not I could buy her a meal... what is her story? What is it that has reduced her to such a low style of living? Is it the same thing that leaves her eyes red and, after receiving my decline, has her stumbling over to a dark man at a nearby table to repeat the same question yielding the same disappointing results? I am left to wonder how it is that she landed herself in her current predicament as she bums a smoke from the man and staggers down the street out of sight.

What about the older looking man in a brown cowboy hat who seems incapable of not utilizing his cell phone... what is it that undeniably catches his attention? Is it work that keeps him occupied, or is he on a call with his daughter who is missing him while he is away from home? Or even, the unkempt woman in a rainbow dress pacing around aimlessly… Is this part of her daily routine, to visit the plaza routinely greeting strangers and watching the traffic going by?

Even the architecture here seems to tell a story. To my left is a beautiful church built entirely of stone in which bells ring everyday at noon. How many years have passed since its’ construction? How many hundreds of people have found their God, been baptized, and had eulogies spoken for them there?

Unfortunately, I realize these are questions to which I will never have all of the answers.

My thoughts are interrupted by a man in green button up shirt decorated by a rather prominent button that reads, “How may I help you?” I smile as he greets me and asks if I am from Ireland. For the thousandth time today, I chide myself for wearing the green shirt that bares my shoulders, proudly displaying my pale skin and red hair for all the world to see. I shake my head politely, accept his compliments, and settle back in my seat as he wanders away.

I decide to sit for a few more moments, watching as people walk by, imagining their story and how it is that it brought them here. Reluctantly, I rise to collect my belongings. I smooth my shirt, then saunter off in the direction of the City Council building, inspired, and in need of a nice, cold glass of water.

Being alone will be beautiful,
Although, so would have been being with you.
In life we must work to win,
But in the process, we still lose.

I'm afraid it's all about compromise,
And learning to live without.
In order for us to live happily,
We must look to another route.

We choose the best possible means,
To the best of all possible ends.
So that our hearts might not be broken,
But, rather, taught to bend.

My bone structure is broken
These contusions- unseen
Yet, they're as real as the skin they hide underneath.

They cling to my ribs
They're the blush on my cheeks
I'm a fragile construction of feverish dreams.

Your words are like x-rays
That reveal where I'm weak
What once was deemed beautiful
Is the mere cage that contains me.

(July 11, 2008)

You are like thunder.
Breaking the silence.
Now, rattle the window.
Awaken our children.

My sweet, you're spring showers.
A fresh summer breeze.

And I am the ocean.
Rain over me.

she had cut off her long locks.
left romanticism behind her.

she was getting down to business now.

she had no time for apologies. regrets.
she was blazing a trail- setting new horizons.
-looking for the next America.

(one that could survive longer than 200 years without selling its soul for a buck.)

...

she, herself, was soul-less.
emotion-less.

- a state of existence she might describe as "limbo"
  had she given herself the time to examine it.

she was challenging socrates.
-finding meaning in an unexamined life.

she was in a state of motion in which 80 mph felt like crawling.

she was concluding.
she was beginning.

she was.......................... l i v i n g? again.

Poetry is ***
... it is ecstasy
Makes you want to speak through me
Bulletproofs me

Poetry is complex
... it is simplicity
And means nothing

No, these words aren't for the birds
They ARE me.

(Summer 2008)

Undress me of these emotions, of these agonizing feelings that bind me to the physical incarnation of a perfect impossibility. Remove them from within me, placing them blatantly, unabashedly out for the world to see.

Dissect me... and explain to me what this is that I feel.

I am of no significance, lacking structure, merely one in a million: living, breathing, simply... existing. I am not nearly of age to have made a name for myself or to claim to have learned how to love. I am just a girl, just a human being standing precariously close to the edge of a mental bridge I have built for myself.

I expect perfection, and am perpetually disappointed.

I become skeptical, losing trust in everything around me, even life, especially love. I walk through life with a cautious gait, daring someone to touch me, to break my stride. I build walls; I put up fences; I am a fortress, impregnable.

Or so I once thought...

I am pensive and withdrawn from the world. I stereotype you; Yes, I judge you. I believe the worst in people, rarely allowing myself to see the good. Occasionally, I let down my guard. I begin to feel... I begin to care... always dismissing the cold, hard fact that it has failed to work before and is certain to fail again. ... And when it does, when my own attempt to "feel something" finally c r a s h e s and b u r n s, breaking the most personal, protected parts of me...

...I dare to inch closer and closer to the edge of that bridge.

I am not without hope, not without a future, but I AM broken, not quite as untouchable as I had once believed. I carry with me no regrets. I forgive; I survive, like so many others before me. I find it within myself to love, t r u l y love... tempting myself to take the step that will finally carry me over the edge of my bridge, into the unknown depths of unknown waters, where it is uncertain that I shall ever emerge again.

She wanted to be exposed. Hot sun. Wet grass. Rough hands. Explore.

…Although, she never found it within herself to believe in freedom. She was the prisoner and the jailer, in one…

Exposed to the elements. Tangled hair. Scraped knees. Naked skin. Vulnerable.

Exposed to herself. Human. Broken. Ugly.

She wished humanity could be beautiful again.
She feared she could never believe in happiness; feel hope, again.

Utility, efficiency, necessity … her mantra.

She longed to remember how to dream once more.

She yearned for open skies and lean legs. When morality mattered.

… She wanted to be exposed. Heartbeat. Heartbreak. She wanted to have a heart, again.

She crossed her legs. Cracked her knuckles, crack, crack, crack, down one hand, then the other. She was full and feverish, awaiting an answer that could change it all. She had gone 3 months with no signs. "Weight loss," they said, "stress". She had listened, busying herself with plans. futures. She was "In control" of her own life.

Now, she was at risk for becoming a statistic. the "standard". Proving someone somewhere right about the ethics of her "lost" generation. She had achieved maturity. Independence. Self-assurance. It could all be lost in a New York minute.  The answer to her worries wasn't the most frightening part; it was the phone call she knew she must face afterwards.

Ambivalence. It was the remembrance of goodbye with the fear of hello.

Crack, crack, crack. She was pulling her hair out over nothing at all. Right?

I am chaos.
I've ceased to be adjectival; I no longer embrace, but am, chaos.

My heart has been broken and glued back together in ways all the pieces were never meant to fit.

I am one million miles per hour over the speed limit, on a dead-end road, with no intention of stopping.

I'd rather not sleep, not eat, not laugh.
I'd rather get ready for the day with swollen eyes and a worn-out mind.

I just want my lungs to explode.

I just want for my eyes to slam shut.

To be still.

I don't believe in pretty poems
(for) pretty verses lie
Love is more than the pretty words
The best of lovers write

I don't believe in pretty poems
They're merely works of art
Let poets spin their painless stories
I'd rather spill my heart

I don't believe in pretty poems
They're fiction- nothing more
In pretty poems, we'll never find
The love we're looking for.

(January 28, 2009)

If it would make you happy,
I'd fingerpaint the skies,
With every single reason,
Why I'll love you all my life.

And if I were a princess,
I'd abdicate my throne,
If it would make you happy,
And, with you, I'd build our home.

Or if you needed silence,
I'd sit and hold your hand,
If it would make you happy,
I'd never ask, just understand.

And if I were the reason,
You always had to cry,
If it would make you happy,
... I'd even say goodbye.

The world is a beautiful work of art,
With priceless paintings of Ocean and Sky,
And fragments of souls just drifting by,
All enjoying this brilliant expanse of life.

Which thrives in the hollows of the Human heart,
And drips from the Heavens to land on our tongues,
We exist in the flesh with the air in our lungs,
As displays, prepped, and ready to be hung.

(July 29th, 2008)

Inspiration is a fickle flirt. He comes and goes, leaving my notebooks full of erratic bursts of passion. Sometimes I almost wish we had never met. I remember the first day; my thoughts were a collision of naivety and girlish impropriety. It was pen to paper and I lost myself in discovering the "inner" me.

Inspiration guided me blindly through heartbreaks and near self-destructions, preserving the sanity my mind so desperately clung to. But then there were other nights when I blared my music and lit some candles, but inspiration never came. I just sat in the dark, wide awake with hands of stone and a restless mind. Of course, inspiration always called the next morning, making sure I had survived the night, begging me to take him back.

There was life before you.
There was
air
in my lungs.
...There was even love.

Can you even fathom it?
I knew love before you?
I knew the warmth of
firm
hands

and

the racing of a
happy
heart.

I was no neophyte romantic-

You just reshaped me-
restructured a
fraction
of my world.

You became my weakest foundation,
and when I fell...
so did your fidelity.

My,
we fell so hard.

But while you fall into empty arms,
I fall into hopeful futures.

I'm learning to
live again.
And someday...
I'll even re-learn to love.

There is life after you.
There is
air
in my lungs.

Why, there will even be love.

In clover fields 'neath a midday sun
Oh, let me be the summer and you be the sun.
Or if I am the sky, then you're a balloon
We could both float away, take a trip to the moon.
We can wear jeweled crowns and build an empire
Or grab a guitar and sing by the fire.
We'll laugh like thunder and love like rain
Catch fireflies like we're five again.

I'll kiss your knees if you fall while we run
Oh, let me be the summer and you be the sun.
We'll make a pact that we'll never part
The impossible dream of a child's heart.
We can tell tall tales and paint the trees
Or steal a ship, sail away to the sea.
We'll shine the stars with the edge of our sleeves
And stay up all night, never falling asleep.

We'll both grow up and fall in love
Oh, let me be the summer and you be the sun.
We'll teach our kids to imagine and dream
By telling them stories of you and me.
How we wore jeweled crowns and built an empire
You played the guitar as I sang by the fire.
We laughed like thunder and loved like rain
Caught fireflies to feel young again.
How we told tall tales and painted the trees
And stole a ship, sailed away to the sea.
Oh, we shined the stars with the edge of our sleeves
And they'll stay up all night, never falling asleep.

(July 14, 2008)

It's the feeling.
Or lack thereof.
Hollow.
Empty.
A rush of air.

An attempt to fill the lungs so full they burst.
Old wineskins to new wine.

It's the desire.
Or lack thereof.
Lifeless.
Anorexic.
A stifled sob.

The realization: Darling, you're far too young for death to come knocking on your door.

Fingertips touching and feelings colliding
The taste of your lips, God, you look so inviting.
It's kissing and clashing- electricity
It's panic! It's fever, as skin and skin meet.
We're a collection of colors, pieces, and parts
Eyes appraising each other as a work of God's art.
It's a pulse; it's a heartbeat- the music of life
Fireworks... explosions... shooting stars in the sky.
Let's burn the books darling, for fire's our friend
Love's a beautiful disaster... beginning to end.

In time, every season must conclude,
And, with it, the love I have carried for you.
Oh, let us be children and live without care,
Live without love, the must subtle of snares.

I ask not for a summer, spring, winter, or fall,
I'd rather have never loved you at all.
Because sadness takes the most destructive of forms,
No April showers; just thunderstorms.

In our youth, we are destined to be apart,
Conclusions both heal and destroy the heart.
Shameless crimes we've committed now wear on my soul,
Perhaps we'll find healing once we're both alone.

Love makes people foolish; I will not be a fool,
Before the world finds me weak, they will first find me cruel.
But if I let our love die, all has not been in vain,
You will heal with the seasons, and find love again.

She was within terrifying proximity of uncharted waters.
Coasting on the shoreline of a land ruled by L words and fallen flag poles.

She'd leave the 3 words left unspoken forever, if it could guarantee her ship would sail.
It didn't even have to sail smoothly; it just needed to stay afloat.

She'd seen her share of horizons, slept beneath stained glass skies.
Weathered riptides.

She'd known heroes.
She'd loved harlots.

And now, she'd kiss the coastland goodbye. Ferry souls for 100 years...
Sail into the eye of the storm.

If he'd love her, like their ship had never sank before.