I left a letter.
Slipped it under the door.
I did not knock,
and I was careful to slip away
as I moved across the floor.

I knew I should have stopped,
I knew I should have turned around.
But my thumping heart
Drown out all the other sounds.
I’d thought about it so many times before,
How I should not be here on this porch
But something pulled me on
Like bugs toward a torch.
Lured toward their death
By attraction that has been wired
Into their system.
Their life soon to retire.

Every tinge of reason, silenced.
Every speck of logic, purged.
Every ****** of vindication
Has been suppressed within my nerves.
The writer has warned that if the note is not passed,
A public copy will be released,
And our next breath will be our last.

They didn’t need the burden that I know brought
The strain of pain and worry that the letter wrought.
I hardly knew these people,
In fact, we’ve never met.
I’ve only heard about them
From the letter I just sent.
Passed on from hand to hand
A secret to disclose
From the privet thoughts
Of a dead girl’s private notes.

Each of us part of her story that we will be told
Each of us not knowing what role we play in the letter we unfold.
No return address or name,
Other than your own.
But once you read the letter,
The sender you will know.
She tells us how each of us has lead to her demise.
How we’ve tainted her reputation with our actions and our lies.

The news will pass from hand to hand in the order they were wrote
By the pen of the deceased who, with purpose, scrawled this note.
Who knew such a simple act could snowball into harm,
That would lead a girl to swallow pills and cut into her arm.

Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat
Rain. Drip. Rain. Drop.
Slowly.
Rhythmic
On the window sill.
Time stood still.
Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat.
Finger drawn across the cool glass.
And then I watched the path I traced melt and fade.
One moment I didn’t want to pass.
Wind rushes in through the cracks.
I pull the blanket closer.
I didn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe
I didn’t want this second to slip away from me.
Below, on the sidewalk I see a little boy
With a suitcase so big he has to drag.
Something tells me that’s his only bag.
His father at his side.
But even in the dark,
The worry in his eyes won’t hide.
Even the little boy seems to know the future doesn’t look bright.
Even he knows that things are not right.
Behind them, and out of their view
A woman follows with a little girl who’s missing her shoes.
A worn and torn rabbit dragging behind,
In search of a better life they hope to find.
Rain keeping time.
Like a heart
Thump Thump with mine.
Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
Knock.
I don’t look.
I didn’t need to.
I knew who it was.
And trust me,
I wasn’t answering.
Knock.
Again.
Knock.
The very moment I wanted so desperately to never come,
And I knew it was useless to try to run.
The wind rushed in again and stung my eyes.
Then I turned and saw my baby,
She smiled up at me,
I was happy that at least she couldn’t see.
Thump Thump.
Acceding the stairs.
The men would take my baby away if they found her.
My one chance.
I had no choice but to take.
If only for my baby’s sake.
I pressed my lips to her forehead.
Then swaddled in my sweater
I tucked the bundle under my arm.
She was breathing.
I could feel it.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.

They took us to the trains.
I made it through the line with my baby.
My heart slowed just a little with that slight hope of maybe.
Thump Thump.
I felt her heart beat.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.
She was fine.
But then my baby cried out,
And the man called me back.
He asked me what I had under my arm.
I didn’t answer.
I knew I didn’t need to.
There was nothing I could do.
He reached out for it.
I couldn’t refuse.
That was last time I felt the thump.
Her heart with mine.

We arrived at this place
Unknown to me.
And I saw a woman whom I knew.
She asked my where my baby was.
“What happened to your baby?”
And I said “What baby?”
“I don’t have a baby”
“I don’t have a baby”

Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat.
The shower filled with gas.

I thought of you today,
Something I’ve done for quite a while,
And how when I looked into your eyes,
You couldn’t help but smile.
I’d ask you why you were so happy,
Your dimples, they would grow.
And you never did answer,
You just said that I should know.
I’d glide my hand lightly down your cheek,
And tell you you were terrible,
For making me guess the things you think.
“Oh be quiet,” you’d whisper with a smile,
And you were right,
I knew exactly what you were thinking all the while.
And In your arms I’d melt and and never leave,
Everything about you was exactly perfect,
The missing piece of me.
I thought of you today,
Every moment we were one,
Every passion and emotion,
But now the time has come.
We are not the same people we had swore.
Once in love, but now, no more.

“I’m happy”, she lied
And she forced that practiced smile,
She’s been perfecting for a while.
Sometime the girl that smiles,
Is only trying to hide her tears.
An inevitable flood,
Suppressed for years.
Pressure behind her eyes builds,
But eventually,
It has to spill.
She seems confident and strong,
But only sleep consoles her tears.
She’s become an expert at lying,
She’s been doing it for years.
Her dreams play out behind closed eyes,
But Happiness she never finds.
Building walls instead of bridges,
She tried to keep herself inside.
Only letting in what was easy,
But it’s not easy to hide.
This girl was smart,
She knew just what to say,
To make everyone happy,
And her mother’s worries at bay.
Just because she comes off strong
Doesn’t mean that she’s not crying.  
And even though she acts like nothing is wrong,
Maybe she’s really good at lying.
This is her life.
And everyday feels like a test.
Trust me, I know,
Cause I’m the girl who’s a mess.

I sleep to dream
I dream to sleep,
A never ending cycle of rest and peace.

Sleep must heal the heart.
Sleep must clear the mind.
So many things, I’m glad, disappear
After my hands close the blinds.

Now I write my own stories.
Escape from reality.
The pen in my hand,
Endless possibility.

When nothing is real,
When it’s all in my head.
Mistakes don’t matter,
Because I’ll always wake up safe in my bed.

I sleep to dream
I dream to sleep,
A never ending cycle of rest and peace.
A never ending cycle of rest and peace.

Another mistake.
One look.
A smile.
I felt loved,
For the first time in a while.
He kissed my lips,
My forehead,
My ear.
Calm down, I told myself,
Stop shaking in fear.
This time he really means it,
I pushed the obvious truth away,
I couldn’t let myself think that way.
Maybe this time,
Maybe this time I’ve finally gotten it right.
But yet again,
My foolishness blurred by usually rational sight.
I wanted so bad for this boy to be different,
I wanted it so much that everything he did
I only misconstrued again and again,
To fit how I wanted it to seem,
To fit how I wanted everything to be.
I thought he felt the same way I did,
But of course, I was only just another girl to him.
I promised myself, last time, that I wouldn’t make this mistake again.

I walk through life with open arms,
Catching all the rage, and anger and pain.
I don’t try to block emotions that are true,
It’s just something that I’ve always seemed to do.
I might seem quiet or shy,
Well not shy, but closed.
Shielding my own emotions,
That I don’t want others to know.
I’m a blank book.
I want answers and words
I crave emotions and purpose.
I strive to be heard.
I have so much to say,
But I don’t want to be judged
Because of silly questions,
Seemingly misguided pretensions.
I just want to learn.
I want to know you
How you feel.
How you think.
If as a baby you were washed in the sink.
These things might seem venial to you,
But emotions and experience,
They are what you always know to be true.
Even what’s in books I do not believe.
Yeah, sure I might surfacely perceive.
But knowing and believing are two very different things.
There’s knowledge and information.
Theres feeling and soul.
Theres what you learn in school,
But that kind of knowledge is not my goal.
Temporary fulfillment and satisfaction,
From praise and worldly choice of action.
But that’s not what I want.
Not truly what I crave.
I want something substantial,
Something personal with age.
I might write poems about death and fear
Or love and power, a glistening tear.
And sometimes I admit,
They are just words,
And sometimes my poems are rather absurd,
But for the most part,
I write about how I am feeling,
About life’s complications,
And how I am dealing.
I might come off as gleaming and happy
When inside I’m enraged.
Or insincere,
When my feelings can’t be described by words on a page.
I might seem angry when really I’m scared.
Facadely confident, but really disbelieving and bare.
Embarrassed when inside I’m just shy.
Inspired when I’m really bone dry.
Enthralled when I’m extremely appalled.
To seem so knowing,
When inside I am lost,
Sometimes I can’t even translate my own thoughts.
Awkward because I’m showing you me,
And that’s someone who I’m petrified for you to see.
I’m shaking right now, because I’m so struck with emotion,
I love writing and speaking and poetry in motion.
And I’m honestly sick of superficial devotion.
What does it matter?
All those words written down,
When there’s no feeling inside in which to drown.
I could get up here and speak for hours about whatever you want,
But I’d be empty and you’d be bored with my personally unconnected front.
Okay, fine.
Fake tears.
A sigh inserted.
Personification of... whatever.
It doesn’t matter.
Well written but lacking emotion.
In all sincerity, if this is why you write,
Stop.
In the end It doesn’t matter.
You’ll end up published, maybe,
In some periodicals or maybe even have your own book.
That’s all great.
But where does that leave you?
Empty. Unsatisfied. Void of purpose.
I want to leave my mark on more than just the surface.
I yearn to get inside your head,
Make you think when you can’t sleep,
And tossing in bed.
I’m beginning to see the worthlessness in worldly gratification
And though I might still write for fun and meaningless narration,
Those are not the works I wish to share,
They’re simply just there.
Stolid in meaning and interpretation
Entertainment and trivial exaggeration.
Out of all the poems I have written thru now,
This is most me, still closed, but seemingly loud.
I hope I’ve made you think,
And I hope I’ve made you question,
And if I have not, I’ve hopelessly failed my own pretension.