mother cried
because she was beautiful
her daughter,
the placid girl.

she cried,
because the men wanted her,
yet could not love her.

as millions plucked
flowers for their beauty,
then threw them to pavements.

they touched her,
because she was beautiful.
they defiled her.

they ripped the petals
from her throat,
and left her to wither,

a rose on the sidewalk.

There's a storm inside me
it starts every time I hear your laughter in the night,
when I think about the way we changed
from human beings
to some people who can only share
some words written on a cold page;

it's hard to explain how is it that I miss you
when I've never really had you in the first place
and you wouldn't understand
you see
your heart has long forgotten about feelings like these.

still

I hear your voice calling my name
I see you before my eyes
even in my dreams I write you in bleeding lines
and in my waking hours
your smile brings raindrops in my coffee
and tears on the shirt I wear
because once you said that you liked it;


spring brings tulips at my doorstep
but it's hard to feel their perfume
to let their scent in my broken lungs;

people tell me that all I have to do
is breathe



but it's hard to breathe without crying.

I never got to love the girl
she spreads wide her rainbow net
where the sky plunges on crystal river
tides swell to hide her shame
ebb to fill her bag of catch

I never got to love the girl
her hairs in the wind
my dreams spawn
a flower rising from the riverbed
she grants a love in my head
spreads wide her rainbow net
thru the long night of blue moonshine
her frock fills up with sparkling life

I never got to love the girl
could no way be the right match.

when your hands roam
my  body unwillingly
the first thing the police ask is
“so what were you wearing?”

as if that explains why
someone grabbed me
and dug their fingers into my skin.

as if a woman doesn’t have a right
to wear crop tops and tight jeans
that hug our bodies

my body is no one's prize
but a home where I should
be able to feel comfortable in,

not a home
I grow to hate
yet it seems as if the
world wants me to.

only when it happens do
people say it isn’t okay.
yet there was nothing done
about it.

everyone looks at you
in pity, as you try not to cry,
he said you gave consent,
that's a lie.

as women, we have a voice,
but our society teaches us not to use it.

no one is to blame but ourselves
we are taught to keep quiet, to look
and act as if nothing is wrong.
when there is a whole war going
on inside of us.

do you want to make me feel better?
don’t ask me what I was wearing.
take the man who scarred me,
give me and all the other girls
he assaulted, tainted. justice.

we sure do deserve it.

if, while on the other side of the world,
you buy me a book
and post it to me
along with the words
'i read this and i thought of you
and i knew you had to read it too'
then what else is left for me to do
except
         to
           fall
               in
                 love
                       with
                              you.

Start with a word, any word.
And then a year later you might find a hundred pages.
A story just begun, a tale, that, in reality, needs some editing.
But I didn’t find myself in these pages I’d written, like the inspirational quotes say.
I found my characters, I found a few bad habits too,
Like how I bite my fingers as I stare at my computer in frustration,
Or stare at the wall in blank fixation.

Once the word is picked, don’t bleed out onto the screen,
Hold yourself together, else you won't have to lips to pour forth a single key.
Some old dude told you to bleed, didn’t he?
I’ve found, I don’t bleed until page 71,
When I have bonded with Jonathon,
And now I must watch him mourn his fiancee,
Who never got to propose.

Be careful about your planning. Too methodical,
And you’ll lose yourself in the untold parts,
Too spontaneous and you’ll see your story turned from
An epic dragon escape to a horror filled romance.
Find a medium of crazy that suits you, and remember the details
Of the night you tried marijuana and coughed as the smoke hit your throat.

Hug the computer tight, don’t let anyone see
Until you’ve determined the story strong. Some people open up at the blank page,
While others hide it away until it’s a polished four hundred and sixty two, front and back.
Say, here’s an idea—don’t forget to study your grammar too.
Unless, of course, you’re poetry demands to be free,
then flow round the corner and hesitate not with commas
theyll be no use for you.

After all this advice, I’ll tell you one thing.
Forget all of it, it’ll be nothing to you.
We storytellers like to go on and on about how to write,
When we barely ever write a real story of characters in between speeches.
If the only thing I could tell you, the only important fact I can say with utter certainty is,

For god’s sake,
Write.