I've always dreamed of adventure, but now, I'm not so sure.
I grew up playing video games and playing pretend in the woods.
What I would've given to be Link with my own legendary quest.
But these are turbulent times.
Between my anxiety and the businessman-president and his blue-bird threats and the media, honestly, I'd rather curl up in a ball and stay inside my house forever.
But the truth is, no one ever caught a crocodile by hiding in their
house.
It takes real bravery.
And while I've got problems staring me down like I'm deadmeat,
I've got to be a crocodile hunter. I have to.
It's the only way to free the princess trapped inside.

He said never again would he flood the earth
but instead, we’ve been at the fingertips of war,
we’ve had rampaging fires that lasted months,
and now a plague wiping out our weak and wise

I’m convinced it’s the end of time now,  
and we still haven’t got flying cars.

“Unbind
Unclasp
Uncover
Uncurl
Unfurl
Undo
Unfasten
Unfold
Unhing­e
Unhook
Unleash
Unlink
Unmask
Unroll
Unveil
Unclip
Unlace
Unzip
­Untie
Unbutton
Unlock”

“Undress.”
“Understood.”

Unravel

You look lovely in
spring colors, chrysanthemum,
drop dead beautiful.

Red, purple, and pink
are toxic to me, I think
poisonous nectar.

Yellow and white shades
steeped in boiling water
become amber tea.

Haikus made around
chrysanthemums in the ground
have a pleasing sound.

Anna
Red hair fell like fire
on her thin shoulders.
Her wide, open eyes, now
seemed sunken in, and sadness,
for a moment, lingered there.
This was her last night on earth.
She again, ran through the events
that took place earlier that night.
When she was with him, in the back
of the Impala.
Images of the car's windows glossed with a
sheen of steam, blazed across her mind.
A smile blazed across her face.
She thought of his smile and her own widened.
She thought of the way he touched her, so gently,
like a feather moving over her. The way he left kisses
in a trail across her skin. The way he held her, as if
nothing on the earth could ever take her away.
Not in that moment.
But there are more than the kind
and protecting angels in this world. There are
demons. But even so, worse are the angels that
have turned their backs on heaven and now
work for the forces of evil.
The angels that would tear their comrades
from this world.
The angels
among
the
demons.

Crowley
Black.
Black as dark as night.
Black as dark as the inner
reaches of the earth.
Black as dark as death itself.
Black like blood.
Red.
Red as deep as warm, copper veins.
Red as deep as magma beneath
the earth.
Red as deep as rage at the sign
of betrayal.
Red like smoke.
Twisted.
Splashes of agony and hatred and
remorse stained his tattered soul.
A true evil radiated from his
vessel. A crafty and
malicious essence raced through his veins.
But he was no Lucifer.
Somewhere, deep down,
there was still a man who
longed to be loved. A man
who longed to be forgiven of his cruel
mistakes in his past life. Deep down, there
was still a man who longed to come back to
the light.
In a world so dark as his, the only light was the fire,
which should have brought comfort, but only
brought pain.
Deep down, he liked the dark.

Mary
Hair like threads of spun gold
tangled around her face. She was fair with
bright blue eyes that held
hues as heavenly as the sun-beaten
sky.
Soft, angular cheekbones sloped gently
down, a tinge of pink, coloring them slightly.
Locks of her wavy hair met her shoulders
but beneath her fair
appearance, she was a
rough girl.
A hunter.
She had seen things most terrible in the world,
thinks that no one should ever see.
And still, he remained a
loving mother and a kind person
in spite of
her demons.

Sam
Echoes of a former friend
rang throughout his
conscious mind.
Mischievous and
sinister laughter danced
around in his head like demons
howling and gibbering in
the night.
He could feel his brother's presence
and the angel too,
but felt only more unnerved
because he knew he was the
only one who could hear the voices.
Another shrill scream pierced
his ears and he ducked, holding
his head between two shaking palms.
Bright flashes of color exploded at
the corners of his vision and danced
around his eyes like a psychedelic
kaleidoscope.
He went spiraling again in his mind and
every color blinked out, like a light.
Everything went dark as the psychotic laughter
echoed throughout
his
skull.

Castiel
Over the hill moved a creature, round and
Glowing with a cold, white light.
Like a spectacular
Moonrise.
It had hundreds and hundreds of
Eyes in every imaginable color, faceted
Like jewels that covered wheels within wheels of
It’s spherical body.
It was an infinite series of intersecting
Rings that spun constantly in
All directions.
Like a gyroscope.
The rings looked like steel but
The substance was
Pearlescent and, like an oil slick,
Contained all of the rainbow within it.
Steel-like whips caressed the ground
And skies as it moved.
And at its center stood two
Wings, upright.
Feathers made from the metallic
Material rippled in the air. Around the wings pooled a
Sticky, warm light. A sheen of phosphorescent light coated the
Feathers and pooled around the wings.

Dean
Through the windshield, the soft
glow of a solitary streetlight glistened
over his cheekbones
and poured down
his jaw that had grown taught from
rapt contemplation.
His coarse, sandy-brown hair, was messed
from his last tango with a monster.
Brilliant flecks of gold danced around in
his hazel eyes,
entwining with years of past remorse and
echoes of both sad and happy memories of
being on the road.
He kept a firm hold of the wheel, gently guiding the
old muscle car down the road.
Tears prickled behind his gorgeous, tired eyes,
but didn't dare escape.  The plastic army
soldier stared him down, but he
could pay him little mind.
His brother, riding shotgun, slept
sitting upright, his long, chocolate locks
covering his eyes as he dreamt with
his forehead
against the cool window.

Lucifer
A luminescent beauty radiated from him.
Behind his tattered vessel's eyes, a blazing
light shined like a beacon in the night.
The fury of a thousand suns, and
the beauty of a million moons.
The bright and morning star.
The most magnificent in all of the angels,
yet far more dark than any demon.
Sinfully exquisite.
Those who say he has horns have never
looked upon his countenance, for the gems
faceted there rival the colors of the morning skies.
And a voice like silk, soft as the
timid pulse,
a voice that could lead you to your own destruction.
Hands both so gelid and searing, you'd quiver
at the touch.
Hands that have brought so many to their death.

You were the definition of
             Satisfaction.
You were the    blood
                                  in my veins, and
the smoke     in my lungs.  
I was addicted to you in the worst of ways.
It was you who could quench the eternal thirst at my lips. And it was you who could satisfy the ravenous hunger in my bones.
You were everything I needed all at once. And You gave me everything I ever wanted.
A love that
                  consumed  
                             me.

Everyone will eventually
fall
victim to some
addiction, and
I want to be the
ravenous hunger
in you
bones.

I never thought I had an addiction.
But I’ve tried to quit drinking coffee nine
times and yet again, I stand in line at the
shop, waiting for that consoling dark brew.

I know later, I’ll come down from
that high and when I crash, I’ll
feel lead-***** and dead inside,
like a car running low on fuel.

But if you told me right now, it
would mean the entire would to you
for me to give it up, I’d dump this
out on the pavement, and quit
cold turkey.

If you wanted it, I’d quit.
If it were cigarettes and you asked
me with earnest blue eyes,
to put them down, I would.

Not out of self-preservation, but
because you mean more.
You always have and always will.
I could never give you up, though.

“Hey, how’s it goin’?” you said, calling me up on your cigarette break.

Good to know how you think of me between puffs of smoke.

I’d like to think of myself as more than just another one of your
addictions, but you know how vices often go hand in hand.

Again, I **** the cigarette.
Again, I nurse the liquid fire.
Again, again, again.
I do these things again and
again, for no other reason than this:
It reminds me of him.

I will not take the blame for
any atrocities
my curiosities
may commit against you.

You told me you required
a potion, or a few
an elixir, or two,  
here's what I've brought for you.

This first red potion will do
it will heal your damage,
even if you’re ravaged.
With magic, it’s imbued.

The second, a blue mixture
a mix that makes you sleep,
a slumber that's so deep,
You'll be out until noon.  

Next is a strange elixir:
green and made of venom,
keep it clear of vellum,
it will eat it clear through.

And the next I have with me
is a dark purple flask
don't dump it in the cask
lest' you'll turn the wine blue.

And next, I’ve got a rare gem
a glowing white tonic,
to heal you of chronic
pain with a swallow or two.

Here is a real concoction.
This one is a deep black.
Don't store it in your sack,
or it will surely spew.

Next, I have this yellow one,
a decanter of wine,
used to make scales shine
like a sheen of fresh dew.  

And here is a fine mixture.
It's a sparkling pink
drink that makes you think,
clearer than you're used to.

At last we meet the end of
this long alchemist's list.
Brews from the willow witch,
hand-crafted just for you.  

There's one for every color
in the rainbows above.
For everyone you love,
I'll be sure to send two.

I’m an all or nothing person; I always have been, I always will be.
If I’m not challenged one way or another, I create my own.
I’ll self-sabotage even if I know better -not necessarily intentionally,
but despite having learned the lesson before.
If I’m not feeling challenged, I will put myself in precarious situations -drama, debt, depression.

It’s never for attention, and always for feeling something besides numb.
Even negative emotions serve a purpose; the feeling of struggling is a sense of survival and shows you’re still alive.
Numbness is nothing; you might as well be dead.

I want it all.
I want your head, your heart, your mind, your soul.
I want your days, your nights, and afternoons.
I want your nows and laters, your firsts and lasts.
I want your happy days and sad days.
I want your good and your bad.
I want your autumns, winters, springs, and summers.
I want your suns and your rains.
I want everything about you.
I want it all.
Everything, all of it, or nothing.
I won’t settle for less.

I just want to smoke my cigarettes and drink my coffee, alone.

I know they won’t last, nothing does, cigarettes burn, coffee cools, but while we’re hot just let us be together, alone.

The boy with
amber eyes
was
destined for
glorious things.
And all those
he met could
tell
he had a special
light
in his eyes.
but the girl he
loved
dimmed his
light
when
she fell for another.

I poured myself out onto you, ink on vellum, your
skin gravelly, your alluring purr as smooth as silk and
soft as velvet, but as you folded me in your arms, my words
were lost like cries in the wind. For once, in a long time, I looked
at you, truly looked at you. I looked past the thin sheen of sweat at your
brow, like the dew on the blades of brown grass in the hot summer mornings.
I looked past the spray of freckles that dusted the tops of your cheeks and the bridge
of your nose, the freckles you loathed so much when you were just a boy because they
reminded you of flecks of glitter. I looked past the blonde locks that ringed your face like a
golden halo. Your hair is longer now, than it was, when we were kids, but I doubt that even
now, you’d let me braid it. I looked past all the little details I’d noticed about you
when we were growing up, and now, I saw a man with amethyst eyes and a
longing washed over me like a wave, pulling me down with the undertow.
I long to know this you as I once knew you, so well, like the back
of my own hand. So, with salt and foam, sweat and ink and in
every sweeping wave, drag me into those lovely amethyst
eyes. If the eyes truly are the windows to the soul,
pour in like a light and flood on the floor. Show me
what you’ve become, because, while I easily
recognize your flesh and outer
appearance, I long to know
you deeper than looks
could ever go.
Sink me,
show
me.

The world has turned grey in your absence and feels as if I will remain blind to all of its brilliant hues for as long as we’re required to be apart—for the foreseeable future.

When this is all over—when I do see you again, I know this dormant fire coiled in my bones will set us ablaze.
When we reunite, our kisses will be sweeter than our first kiss.

When we get together, our love will be even more ravenous, even more demanding, even more essential than before, and we will desire and be desperate to become reacquainted.

When I see you again, it will be like my soul has returned to the water, and once again I have been made anew.

When I see you again, every part of me that came from
the dust of dead stars will be alive again.

You were an angel
but feathers fall like bowling *****
when the air is missing from the room,
from your lungs.
You gasped when I called you out, a
baffled sound, surprised more so, only by
the startling sensation of your wings being torn off.
Though, that warranted bloodcurdling screams,
and rightfully received them.
You had us all fooled with silken lies,
but Caroline Janeway saw you in the back of Al’s
Pool Hall in Roseville, Minnesota, back in 1994.  
And last I checked, heaven wasn’t in the back of Al’s Pool Hall.
She said that you were glued to the lips of some chick in a miniskirt,
that you looked like you’d had one hell of a time.
That’s when I put it all together: you weren’t an angel, you never were.
You’ve always been good at bending the truth, though.
Here I was thinking that you’d fallen from heaven,
but really, I’d just fallen for you.
Solitary walks through silent city streets seem to clear the air for me.
You needed to become a part of my past, but how
do I fix the damage that’s been done?
You had a broken halo and I, a broken heart.
I never knew you could be so savage.
The glittering look of endearment in your eyes was
lust and nothing more. I saw so much more.
You, Cupid, loose an arrow; though it sticks I can
no more than despise you, now.
I pluck it from my side, warm, sticky blood
running down in streams.
Janie would have fainted at such a sight.  
I’d stand frozen, watching it all unfold before me.
Your bloodied, pristine, feathers litter the ground.
There I stood, trapped by a web of lies.
Yet, la mia anima è libera, my soul is free.
I feel more weightless, now, than any feather ever could.
Though, I suspect that they feel freed from you as well.
You were never an angel but you fell from grace.
I hand you the arrow, dried blood covering the silver tip.

I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, my love.
I know happiness is never far, when you are near.

My dear, you are so wonderfully lovely, and I want nothing more than to write you eloquent poems, and sculpt you from the ground up.

I want nothing more than to paint you in a million different colors and sing songs of your beauty.

But I’m no artist, my dear, and all I’ve got is “I love you.”

If the big bang created everything we now know,
if the sun brings us life,
if the moon, turns the tide,
how can we not be moved by the stars?
We’re practically stardust, ourselves.

Gentle winds rolling,
Moonlight pouring over us,
Silent bliss outside.

I’ve never had a deja’vu moment,
but I could have sworn I’ve seen you before,
after passing you on the sidewalk.
It wasn’t because you had a familiar face,
God knows I’m the worst when it comes to
remembering these details.
It was something in your stardust that
awakened mine.
I’ll never forget you.

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, and
I’ve realized there are so many strikingly gorgeous people in the world.
No, I am not talking about the long hair
Or the blinding teeth or the amethyst eyes, those lovely windows to the soul.
No, I am talking about the souls, themselves.
Beautiful, creative and unique souls comprised of the most exquisite stardust. It’s none of the things we call ‘beautiful,’ here on Earth, though the face of true beauty hides behind them.

I don’t belong here.
I go through the motions —the day to day— left unfulfilled.
I know I am meant for something more, something exquisite.
I don’t belong here.

watched you walk
down cracked pavement
bird’s eye view

past yellow taxis
blue postal boxes
and red phone booths

details I could see from here
though none caught my
eye quite like you

Twisting and turning,
inside I am burning
blackened bones all smeared with ash,
and soot,
and along the edges tinged with yearning.

You were my air, I was your fire
and I was consumed with desire
a longing for you burned me up
like wood,
and the smoke kept on rising, higher.

Stole my breath away with a smile
and your colored wings, all the while
I stood
so very still, but my heart was beating wild.

The suffocating wind was roaring
for your love it was imploring
it would
have been the death of me,
but with you, I am forever soaring.

The snow drifts were
       quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
      towns and trees and the poor souls who
    had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
    Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
      or spring
             or sun
                  or summer
                            or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of         desolation and
        s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.  
             Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni.  Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
      
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful.  The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.

I never asked you for your body count and to be frank, I honestly don’t care.
The number of lovers we shared our beds with is irrelevant, so why do you waste your precious air?

I’ll never forget
the night we had
on the rosewood floor,
the way you looked,
the way you smelled
the way you felt
on my skin.
I’d have the floor taken
up and I’d cover my walls
with it to evoke the
memory of you every single day,
more clearly.
I’d build my casket out of it and
bury myself alive, if that is
what it takes to get
you to see that
I am dying without you.

It was rather beautiful the way
he put her insecurities to sleep.
The way he dove into her eyes
and chased away her fears
the way a tail chases it's
comet across a pitch-black sky.
Her eyes became a galaxy and
he could see the dreams she kept
coiled beneath her bones.

I'll wear your
    bones like jewelry
in my ears, like
                       precious

trophies, and
like pins in
my hair.

I love you so much that
                   I wish nothing more
than for
                   you to be
with me

always.

If riches, beauty, calm, humility,
compersion, contentedness, and
inspiration are all secrets that
are tucked between the pages of
one book or another,
why have you not yet read it?
You struggle with your sins, yet you do
nothing to combat them.
I know it isn’t because of your lack
of desire to read, if it were, I would
find the most luxurious vellum,
richest ink, and I would write a book
just for you if that is what it takes
to get you to understand that
these things you do, are not only
darkening your soul,
but they’re costing you your friends.
I know that without the darkness,
stars could not be seen, but
I would rather lose you to my mouth
than to the dark.

We’ve come together physically,
we’ve connected emotionally,
we’re on the same wavelength, mentally,
and all that’s left is a spiritual bond.

We’ve barely scraped the edge of it before,
but we have yet to hoist ourselves up over
that ledge and experience what it truly means
to be bound.

cry me a river
build a bridge
and get over it

he said,

but if only he knew how many
oceans I’d cried for him and
how many bridges I’d burned
trying to get over us

I'm the kind of girl who burns through guy friends like rubber on tiers, like sulfur on matches, like gasoline and kerosine and flameward moths.
But I don't want to burn through you.
We just go together so well—like puzzle pieces.
You and I are like day and night, sun and moon.
If you only knew how it eats me up inside, keeping my cool.
I feel this tiny spark dancing in my heart and it threatens to rake my body in flames, ready to pounce on me, licking and biting at the first sign that I'm falling for you.  
I'm really trying to hold my fuse right now, but one second we're joking and laughing and in the next you say something that tugs at me and I feel my hold on it slipping.
If I don't burn you first, this fire in my bones will certainly consume me.

Every breath, a weight
on my chest, reluctantly
comes, being chased
only by my
quickening pulse.
A knife slips between
my ribs and with
every word that passes over my lips, it
twists.
A silent scream is trapped
behind my teeth.
Butterflies with knives
are cutting up
my insides.


Found poem from Automatic Loveletter's song "Butterflies"

I've had a hole
growing in
my stomach for
days.
Butterflies are
wrapped up
in the ribbon
in your
tapes, and
they come inside
and tie
confused
little knots around
my bones.

You weren't the butterflies in my stomach —no, you were the ache
in my chest.
You were the lust in my eyes and the longing in my bones.
And there's nothing I can do to shake the stinging feeling of
wasps one my skin, in the places you should be.

You always give me butterflies.
Won’t you take them away?
I find it nearly impossible to think when my heart is beating to the rhythm of their gossamer wings.
And it’s all because of you.

Listen to your eyes.
Take note where they linger
and where they don't.

Take note at whom you catch
yourself starting and whom
you couldn't bear to watch.

Take note of those whom
you can't bring yourself
to turn away from, like
a driver, passing by,
an onlooker at a car crash,
a sight you can't peel your
eyes from, if your life
depended on it.

As I stroked gently the head of the sun-spun hair draped
softly across my chest, I couldn’t help but find myself
thinking, for what must have been the hundredth time,
what are you thinking, how are you feeling?
What have we done to each other?
Yet, as if on cue, as if reading my thoughts,
your head snapped up and your eyes met mine.
You looked at me half-lidded and while my first
two questions remained unanswered, I realized it
was merely a catchlight I saw in your eyes, and
what we had done to each other was ***** out the
starlight that had once dwelled there.


“When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. I picture cracking her lovely skull, unspooling her brains, trying to get answers. The primal questions of any marriage. What are you thinking? How are you feeling? What have we done to each other?” —Ben Affleck, Gone Girl

Found poem from the opening lines of the movie, Gone Girl.

I remember when we first got together.
When it started with fireworks and butterflies and hope.
When every touch and every kiss felt like a revelation.
When love was our religion and worship our preferred pastime.

But now, it feels different; it’s all work, and money, and politics.
I shy away from your kisses and pray your hands stay above the belt.
And maybe it’s blasphemy to say this, but I feel like the magic is gone,
like I’ve fallen out of love with you.

I’m wondering if I’m having a change of faith or just now realizing
the sacrifice isn’t worth the settling, after all these years.

And I can’t tell which sin is worse —telling you or keeping it to myself,
because either way, someone’s heart will be broken.

Your cheeks
are the
      sky

and every freckle is a glittering
star.
Your eyes are like beautiful moons, deep
blue,
like the    
                               sea
and full of

         wonder.

I looked up at the moon with a curiosity,
I, myself, had never known before.
The way its Cheshire-cat smile taunted me.
                             Somehow, it unnerved me.
                                               It challenged me.
And at the same time, the cool, white moonlight
made me feel warm inside, as if it knew I was alone
and it was smiling down on me
as a sign of comfort.

Between silken sheets we let all of the golden clocks fall over the edge of our world.
There, we kissed and kissed until we could measure time only by the rise and fall of our broken breaths and knew no other taste
than the light in each others bones.

You were a drug to me, babe.
      You weren't the medicinal kind either.
                                          You weren't just a painkiller.
You weren't an antidepressant.
                                                     You weren't a Xanax.
                                                        You weren't ******.
You weren't even the good kind of drug.

                    You weren't ****** or **** or ecstasy.
You were the kind of drug that
                                           messed around with my heart and left my brain feeling clouded.
You were the kind of drug that left me confused and
                                                                               feeling worse than before I took you.
But I did.
Again and
again.
I told myself I would
break this vicious cycle of unscrewing your cap and
                                                                   hating myself for it afterwards.
That I wouldn't draw back the plunger and
                                                          force you into my veins anymore.
But I didn't.
Again and
again.

I told myself you
                                                would be the death of me.

Every high you gave me left me feeling
                                                                          lost in the clouds.

I might as well have been
                                    six feet deep.

Sometimes, I can’t help but dream of you in colors.
I wish only to be able to describe them to you, my love.
But the fact of the matter is this: there isn’t a single hue that would do your beauty justice.

I know we’ve known each other for a while, as friends,
but there is something you must know.
I see the way you read and the way you play the piano and
the way you quote Shakespeare, and there is an aching in my
bones to be the thing that steals your time and focus the way
the simplest of hobbies do.
I want you to read me the way you hungrily read books
cover to cover, scanning every word of the story, knowing it in and out,
the way one only could through careful scrutiny.
I want you to touch me the way you play the piano, striking
the keys with such emotion at times and hardly grazing them at others.
I want you to make me sing the way you make the piano sing for you, love,
songs that no one else knows the words to.
I want you to speak to me in such a way that my heart melts
between your words, sentences so eloquent and intimate,
made only for my ears, sentences so carefully wrought and woven,
sentences so softly strung together that the slightest breath might blow them away,
sentences that Shakespearean sonnets couldn’t dare hold a candle to.
I want to be the one not only who takes your time, but also the one who
consumes you completely,
just as you’ve consumed me.

It is the cream, the sugar the spoon
I should be reaching for, but this early,
my fingers know only the route to
the buttons on your shirt and the zipper
of your jeans and nothing else.