i hear the whistle of a mockingjay 
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world 
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine 
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion 
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.

the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.  
the breeze teases 
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.

i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited. 
have faith in me.

and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper 
with these circumstantial quandaries 
that leave us wondering whether or not 
we should press pause.

instead i'll climb the mountains 
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies. 
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells, 
i could see reality through your eyes— 
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.

your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State 
and all the arbitrary authorities  
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.

you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless, 
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film, 
directing a play, 
writing a novel, 
all in a day's work. 

and you breathe white-hot fire 
when you fight for the disenfranchised 
recognizing that those who are neutral 
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite 
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever 
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.

i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes 
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:

i found what i love 
and i want it to **** me.

I lay in the impression of your body
On the right side of the bed
The side pressed against the window
Always the window facing side was yours
Perhaps because you always felt the urge to escape
The need to be able to flee my presence at any given moment
Any flit of your mind
And any flicker of my imperfection

In the dark
Laying in the attic
The rain is slow and painful
There is one persistent dripping directly above me
Many more feel as though they are closing in on me
As if taunting my incompetent tear ducts
My eyes that refuse to cry

great love to me is frightening
it's all ache and burn
the
rearranging of breath & bones
justifying anything at all to see that
smile in front of me
I can't
rightfully explain it the way my knees can
or my
right hand but
I like to call it floating
I like to feel that &
sink at the same time \
it's confusing and beautiful;
hours become petals,
heartbeats are worthy and
it is cold settling after this.
it is unbreathable
when the warmth gets wasted

the art
of moving forward,
or dare I say- on
is the type that is too beautiful
to ever be drawn
acted
or done
the art of moving forward
is the sweetest kind
and if you ever figure it out
please teach me

because art,
  was never my strong suit

Your brown eyes could glow an eternity
Setting entire galaxies into flames
Your phases of the moon changed perfectly
As an eclipse rushed through your pastel veins

And then, sadness would trickle down us face
All of a sudden, building a terror
Inside of me that I cannot erase
Who knew nebulas contain lavender

However, your constellations still shined
Even when the sky wreaked havoc upon earth
And your sanity was never aligned
You really are more than you think you're worth

If only I could see your ember soul
Once more, my fuschia heart would be more whole

~Amanda S.

In morning light so radiant
As spears cast from the Sun
As glimmering shafts of daybreak fall
The blanket fog of cool of night
Is pierced and soon is gone

May my love to you be Sun
And my words be to you light
And may they pierce your shadow shroud
And bring your soul to life

I have music in my head
A beat of a particular sound
Is it my blood rushing through my veins
Strumming my chords or have I found
some other percussion in me instead.
Whether I trail downstream to the pool
or to the purple prickly moors
My music goes with me
Beside me and behind closed doors.
It sings to me heart, a rhythm downloading
my thoughts to the breeze.  Wafting to the wind
blasting in the lanes as I go off roading
in my little jeep with rickety floors.
Bumping and grinding it does
behind closed doors.