Your kisses
Leave my lips
Stinging.

Oh how delectably
Electric.

There is nothing like
A crisp morning
To remind you
That even after
The darkest night,
There is rebirth.

I didn't know
I was your puppet
On a string:

You tossed me
Turned me
Made me swoon
To your every word.

I didn't know
I was your puppet
Until you cut
The strings,
And I fell face-down
Into what I thought
Was love.

I wonder
whether it's you I miss
or the feeling of being loved.

I am lost:
My mind scattered
In endless constellations above me.

As dreams infuse with reality
And thoughts diffuse into insanity
I realize:
To be insane is to see the infinite.

This majestic creature glides
As she takes to the skies.
Her mind works with an eagle’s ability,
While her heart is crafted with a sparrow’s humility.

She flies not with an eagle’s pride
For her hopes are not to own the sky;
But to share it with her accompaniers
Flying never in front but alongside her peers.

She sings not with a sparrow’s naivety:
Each day unbothered and indifferently,
For the purpose of this altruist’s life
Is to serve others through sacrifice.

Although she is fearless in her flight,
She does not soar far out of sight.
She stays close to the ground, not in fear of the skies,
But in awe of the water above which she flies.

And as she departs beyond the river bend,
Her wings command the day to end.
This Blue Crane floats away effortlessly
As the sun takes a bow into the depths of the sea.

I write you into my poems at midnight
So that I never forget you;
I write you into my prayers at midnight
So that you never forget me.

A woman bows her head
And says grace,
Thanking God for the food before her;

A homeless man outside bends over
And smokes a cigarette
With the waiter,
Thanking him for his company.

I think God
Is a relative concept,
Depending on who you're speaking to.

Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.

No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.

But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.

And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.

With my head pressed on your chest
I listen to your breathing;
The rhythm of each breath
In harmony
With the pulse of each heartbeat
Like the lyrics of my favorite song.

Slowly waves of sleep
Wash over me
And the crests of my inhalations
Fall perfectly in tune
With the troughs of your exhalations,
And we drift off into different worlds
Together.

All I want
is for you
to notice something
beautiful about me:

Whether it be
a freckle
on my neck,

the white line
on my nose
after I smile,

or the way
I string a bunch
of words together
in a poem.

I see beauty
In the ordinary;
To me
Perfection
Was watching him eat
Leftover birthday cake
On the couch
One Saturday morning.

I fell in love with him,
Not after some grand gesture,
But while watching him
Sing High School Musical songs
While he cooked breakfast.

I am no flower
Only just blooming from a seed;
I am a tree, rooted in experience

I wonder
how many words
have sat on the tip
of your tongue,
waiting to take the plunge
into the world outside,
but have held back
in fear of the fall-

and I wonder
how different your life would be
had those words been set free.

He told me
I was like a sunflower:
and I'm rather touched
that he didn't compare
me to a rose,
deceptive in its beauty,
but rather a flower
that constantly
follows the path
of the sun.

I have always been a writer.

When I was younger
I thought my ability to write
Was finite. I thought
My creativity would dry up
Like a pond in summer.

Now I realize the number
Of stories you write is not limited
To the number of pages you have
Or the amount of ink in your pen.

Creativity is the wind around us:
Although you can never really catch it:
You feel its presence on your skin
Even though it's not always present,
It's always certain to return.

I will always be a writer.

I’ve always been a bad sleeper;
In fact
When I was a little girl
And I’d finally had enough
Of wrestling thoughts
and sticky sheets,
I’d tiptoe across quiet hallways
With sleepless eyes
To find solace in another couch or bed,
As if heartbreak
could be left behind
Like tear drops on pillows.

-LMJ.

I hope your dreams
Grow into rose gardens
And taste as sweet as sugar

So you can wake up and smell the roses

And stir some of that sugar into your morning coffee

My mother treats sick people for a living;
very sick people with cancer.

She is the strongest person I know;
my rock in stroms of tears and heartbreak.

One day I heard her sobbing in her room
when she thought no one was listening:

A 14 year old boy had died in her care,
and I watched as she drowned in her own helplessness.

So I said nothing and wrapped my arms around my sobbing mother
and let her be a child for once
in the arms of her own daughter.

You were told:

"You are tougher
than you think,"
When in fact that is a lie.

You are only as tough
As you think you are,

So think great thoughts,
And be as tough
As you know.

I love gloomy days
Because without the sun
To tell us when it's noon,
Dusk or dawn,
The day blends into one
Long continuum
Where any time of the day
Could be any other
And humanity gets a taste
Of the infinite.

Presence is a form of prayer;
Instead of praying that all will be well,
Know that all is well;
Instead of praying that the future will bring happiness,
Know that there is happiness now.
Instead of praying for perfection;
Know that right now everything is in place.

Presence is a form of prayer;
Know within you that this moment
Is carved by the divine.

I could have sworn
your eyes were hazel
when you told me
you loved me,

I could have sworn
they were never this shade
of rich mahogany-
but maybe they have lost
their intircate flecks of green
like the leaves do in Autumn.

I suppose winter was inevitable.

He stuck to my heart
Like sticky sweetness
On clammy palms,
Transparent to the naked eye,
Something only felt by me.

Guilt is a grey and desolate shore,
Abandoned many years before,
And you’re sitting on the sand alone,
While the wind calls out with a dreary moan.

The warm sand below, your body does charm;
Holds you like an infant in a mother's arms.
Although the comfort is all but a lie,
You lay your head down and slowly close an eye.

Through the stormy high-tides you sleep;
And slowly but surely the waves begin to creep.
You do not feel the icy water lick your toes,
Nor when it devours you in your ignorant doze.

Until one day you no longer roam the misty beach;
The waves have grasped you in their callous reach.
Swallowing you whole, beyond horizons ahead;
In a sea of apologies that were left unsaid.

I knew I loved him
When I realized
I didn't expect anything
From him;
Not even his love.

Sometimes I feel
Like I'm fading,
Disappearing into an ocean
Of people like the
Translucent moon
In the daytime sky.

Money
Doesn't make
The world go around;
Empathy does.

I thought that writing
had abandoned me;
left me forever
like a lover
in an unrequited union.

I spent evenings waiting for
it to come back,
for words to stumble into me
at the grocery store-

but alas I waited 14 long months
and I was still alone,
as I started thinking
I had found other pastimes
and met other interests.

But when the passionate
ebb and flow of words
finally returned,
I realised this old flame and I
have unwritten business to finish.

It is very rare
To live in the moment.

At any given time
We find ourselves
Thinking about the past
Or planning for the future.

To live in the moment
Is the most beautiful
Feeling;
Because you remember
Every sound,
Smell and touch,
And have memorised
Every crease on your lover's palm.

And for days,
Months
And even years,
You will live in that moment

Until time drains the colour
Of that memory,
Like a used cloth,
And you have to find
Another moment to live in.

As I sit
On a deck chair
In the sun
Outside my childhood home
And let the sun
Leave its mark of beauty
On my skin,
My thoughts flow
Like poetry
And I am happy once again.

I can hear
The delicate chirp
Of birds
And wonder whether
They're saying:
"You should've done this
A long time ago."

And with the image
Of you on my mind,
I looked up to the sky
And snow began to fall;
A snowflake
For every time
I thought of you

I am constantly wondering
Whether it is better
To live without doubt
Or to question everything
Around me

I left my arms open for you
When you needed a friend,

I left my heart open for you,
When you needed love
(but didn't give it in return)

But now,
Two years later,
I refuse to leave my mind open
For you to walk through my thoughts
As you please.

We are all flowers in this world,
Merely here to decorate the earth
Before God decides to pick us
For his bouquet of humanity.

Maybe the world doesn't spin,
And it is the people
Who are constantly moving,
Trying to find something
They are still unsure of.

Be still and it shall come.

They tell me
Something about me is glowing
These days:
They want to know
If I'm working hard
To polish myself
So the world can see my shine,
Or if the light comes from within?

It's neither;
I tell them.
It's so easy being happy
When you're a mirror
Reflecting the glimmering
Beauty of our world.
You just first have to see it.

I have been
The cause
Of my own tears
For too long.

Like a bulimic
Forcing the contents
Of their stomach out,
I inflicted pain upon myself;
forcing my emotions out
In tears
That streaked my cheek.

Now,
When emotions come in waves
Like nausea
I hold back the hurls
As the tears rise
To the back of my throat.

I will no longer let
My own thoughts
Be the metaphorical finger
Down my throat.

I have insomnia
Because when the rest
Of the world is quiet,
I can hear myself think.

I've always had
A special connection
With writing;
I've never actively
Had to search for
The right words,
They've always just
Come to me
Like bees drawn to nectar,
To produce the sweetest honey

They told me
It was as if
Life loved me;

But I told them
That life is an unfaithful lover;
It only cares for you
When you are at your happiest
And seems to put you down
At your worst.

The secret
Is to love life
Even through the times
When the love seems unrequited.

If the purpose of life is to make art;
I suppose,
All true artists go insane
Baring the entirety of life
On their shoulders.

Writing has always been a fickle friend to me;
Sometimes the only thing standing between me and a masterpiece
Is the mood to write.

My face is
Not photogenic enough
And my thoughts
Are undercaptured

Sometimes
It's nice to let
The silence of life
Trickle in through
Your ears

My favorite thing to do
When I miss you
Is to climb to the top
Of my roof at sunset
Where we used to sit
And be engulfed in the beauty of
The never ending sky;

And just as your favorite song
Begins to play
And the scent of you lingers
In the air,
For a brief moment
The sky turns a mixture
Of the most beautiful pink and orange
Which then suddenly disappears.

And it is almost
As if the sky is telling me
That all beauty is ephemeral.

Connecting to someone
Is almost electrifying:
When you first meet them,
You do not notice
The subtle charge building up
In the small things they say
Until their scattered words
Connect to the open wires of your soul.
And with a sudden electric impulse,
You see them in a brand new light.

Oh how beautiful it is
To really get to know someone.

I guess
I'm just scared
You'll wake up one day
And tell me you don't love me
Anymore

Because if you did
I wouldn't know
Where to put
All this love

I am staring
At the same sky
I was staring at last year,
Listening to the same birds
I was listening to last year
Waiting for the same sunset
As I wait for this year

But the difference is
Everything seemed so empty
Last year
Because I didn't know you

The best part of hell
Is probably still
Called heaven