I'm not the only one who has to suffer,
Though I may die the most,
I'm not your only imaginary lover.

I'm not the girl you'll walk down the aisle with,
Though I'll be dead before your wedding.
I'm infatuated with fable and myth.

I'm not insane-- I am in love!
Though I will never tell you.
You won't believe it's something I can prove...

This is a most bittersweet goodbye,
Because I could tell, as you walked away, you thought
That my eyes are most beautiful when I cry.

The tedious waking hours
Are just another day
Just another morning
To get out of the way.

Yet another reminder
Of things I cannot be
Of people I won't amount to
Of places I'll never see.

It's not as clear as day
But it's been here for a while
With the reactions people give
Why should I go the extra mile?

I spend an hour in the morning
Conjuring up my mask
Though vanity isn't really
A difficult thing to grasp.

But insufficiency is
For I've got everything I want
Everything but a genuine smile
Through convict and hatred and taunt.

I walked blindly into that night,
Or so I led you to believe.
No, I knew what I was doing, and how wrong it was.
I just thought
It could stay a secret,
Just a secret
And nothing more.

Of course I hoped for more,
But how much can one hope for?
How much can one hope for with signals so unclear?

I set my goals too high
And ventured to lows too low.
I knew what I was doing,
knowing it was wrong;
Even knowing how she would feel if she found out--
I knew it was wrong.

But that didn't stop me.

No, it takes an eighteen-wheeler going eighty,
Hitting me right in the face.
It isn't until then that I see.

It isn't until then that I see I'm a selfish *****--
A homewrecker of sorts--
Undeserving of your love.

Leave me here,
Alone,
To bask in my desperation.
Though I'd give you my heart in a second,
Turn me down,
For I am more deserving of pestilence.

I want to get that warmth back
I’m sick of being ice cold
But with everything I touch
Cobwebs drop from my fingers
Said I want to get that fire back
So sick of being ice cold
But everywhere I go
I simply shrivel up
And all the boys are missing
But one
He keeps coming back, showing up
When he’s not wanted
The masculine goddess
Keeps calling my name
Still I’m stuck
Went underwater, swam in the lake
Hoping to embrace fire once more
Somehow it’s gone astray
I want to get that warmth back

I put on the tea kettle
and turn up the stove
put a tea bag into my cup
and begin walking
in a diagonal direction
with each step
being with each breath
and my hands over
my heart
with my thumb inside
the right hand
so I take a slow walk
and come back to the stove
and the water is ready
then into the cup
goes the water
so then I walk again
twice this time
and the tea is done.
I have given up
the powerful way
of Zen
for the way of Shambhala
where we breathe easy.

The poetry editors said
"No vocabulary - No poetry"
so I thought
"Great! I won't use any big words!"
and the poetry editors said
"Don't write poetry that is like a thesis"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write my philosophy!"
and they said
"We only want poetry with beautiful imagery"
so I thought
"Great! I won't write any flowery word pictures!"
and they said
"Be patient with your poetry and don't rush it"
so I thought
"Great! I'll be spontaneous and not edit anything!"
and they said
"Don't write anecdotal poetry"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write little story poems!"
and they said
"No spelling mistakes"
so I thought
"Great! I'll intentionally misspel"
and they said
"Don't write about your ordinary, mundane life"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write about my ordinary, mundane life!"
and they said
"No cliches"
so I thought
"Great! I'd love to use old tired worn-out cliches!"
and they said
"Don't be redundant"
so I thought
"Great!"
and then the Buddhist nuns suggested
that I write formlessly,
so I tried every form
I could think of,
and then the Zen master suggested
that I just write my thoughts,
so that's what I do,
although this is not exactly
how my thoughts go,
so that's how I learned to write poetry
in my personal school
of self-help stupidity!

Holly lived in darkness,
Holly lived in pain,
Holly heard the voices,
from deep inside her brain.

The voice that called her useless,
The voice that told her "Cut".
The voice that called her bad,
the one that declared her "****".

Holly told the doctors,
about these things inside her head,
They said she'd grow out of it,
as they sent her home to bed.

There beneath the donner,
she stayed huddled up for years,
The voices ever getting louder,
they kept adding to her fears.

To day a mother lost her daughter,
they never got to say good-bye.
All the time the voices watched,
they watched Holly die.

(c)  10/May /2010

to meet everyone's need,
          plenty in the world, Gandhi said;
                  not enough for greed.
                       but we made greed our need.