I had a panic attack the other day,
as I felt my emotions fading, fading
away, in a desperate attempt to cling
on to feeling. Something. Anything.
I wanted to avoid that empty pit
of Nothingness
of Silence from feeling
as though it would consume me
faster than the plague consumed Europe
faster than a Prisoner consumes his last supper before his execution
faster and faster the emptiness presses in collapsing the open space around me constricting my lungs and suffocating me until I'm gasping gasping for breath and some semblance of emotion to cling to but there was nothing there; and I fell into the void.

I opened my eyes and
slowly looked around myself.
This world of no emotion
has proved to be a gift.
I was terrified of losing myself in it
as I lost my emotions.
But that wasn't the case.
In the emotional void I re-found myself.
In the silence from the usually
clamoring, noisy emotions a
certain clarity has appeared.
In that silence, I could finally hear
that gentle whisper of God;
And I could finally breathe again.

It was the eyes.
The eyes that first drew me in, as they went back and forth
back and forth,
back and forth.
Never ceasing, never pausing.
Line by line, down my body as they observed me.
As the eyes craved to see me and understand me;
But not me, not the real me.
Because though they were staring intently at me
and watching me from left to right, left to right
It wasn't me they were seeing in their mind's eye.
The eyes observed me, and somewhere in the translation,
The optic nerves produced a picture of something quite different.

The hands. Oh! The hands.
That held me, and stroked me as they moved through me
Gently touching me, holding me, and loving me.
They were firm and sure: I was safe in these hands.
I was not these hands' first, nor will I be their last.
But for now: I am theirs, and I don't care what will happen next.

I can never express how much you mean to me,
you who see and study me, but never know me.
You will understand my clothes of ink,
Cry over the character my clothes produce
And fall in love with my fabric of words.
It is the burden I bear:
to be the carrier of heartbreak and sorrow
anger and rage
laughter and love
But to never receive these emotions in return.
Not for me: not for the blank pages of myself.

She smiles today
As she goes from class to class
No one would know; no one would think to ask
Because she chooses to smile that way.

Deep inside she hides
The pain from long ago.
A childhood stained, an adulthood maimed
By the secret she dare not show.

She smiles today,
Because if she doesn't smile
She'd spend all of her time with the tears
That are there underneath all the while.

William Shakespeare: playwright and poet
My absolute favorite of all time
The master of words in plays and sonnets
Unappreciated during his prime
His comedies still make us laugh today
Who could forget The  Taming  of  the  Shrew?
Now it's told in a much different way
A movie: The  Ten  Things  I  Hate  About  You
People think of his many tragedies
Othello,  Romeo  and  Juliet
We still feel their sorrow; weak at the knees
We cry for the Prince of Denmark:  Hamlet.
"But soft! What light through yonder window break?"
The work of a legend those words do make!

Today was a good day.

Despite the cancer that threatens my cousin's life today,
That  boy  held  the  door  for  me.
Despite the death of my Aunt's mother,
They  actually  sat  with  and  talked  to  me.
Despite the blocked arteries of my other Aunt,
My  friend  from  home  visited  me.
Despite the perpetual heart problems of my Grandfather,
They  made  me  laugh  through  my  tears.

Despite all of the **** that's going on,
I embrace the things that go my way.
Despite how everything seems to go wrong:
Today was a good day.

I looked at you.
                           You looked at me.
I smiled at you.
                           You-
I looked quickly down
                                                            ­We continued walking on our own paths.
I will never know if
                            You smiled back at me, if
                                                              ­We could have been friends.
I looked quickly down
                            You may have smiled, but
I looked quickly down
                             You  could  have  rejected  me.

Ugly is a strong word.
More often than not, I find myself feeling unpretty.
There are times when I feel gorgeous, but then I look in the mirror: and feel unpretty.
My hair doesn't hang right, that zit popped up overnight, and God, my glasses: wouldn't I **** for better sight. I am unpretty.
I suppose I could handle being unpretty if my roommate was not pretty.
But she is.
And I am not.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Her hair is long and thick, curls to perfection, and straightens upon command.
It's pretty.
She's pretty.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Knock Knock Knock
There's a guy at the door! I open it: "is your roommate in?"
No.
Bu I'm here. why not come in and wait for her. Talk to me for a while, even if I am the unpretty one. "No, that's okay, tell her I came by."
Okay.
Will do.
Not like I wanted to talk to you.
I wish it were just the guys who notice that I'm the unpretty one.
No.
It's the girls too.
My entire floor flocks to my door, wishing it were my roommate more
than me.
I answer the door and faces fall; can't they just pretend to be happy at all
to see me?
No.
I guess not.
It's a side effect of being unpretty- the unpretty one.
I am not ugly.
I used to not even feel unpretty-not until I became the unpretty One.
Life used to be so flirty and fun- now I am the unpretty one.
Life is a comparison, I guess: and now I'll always be second best.
I am the unpretty one.