my actress, who
sweated blood on Broadway each night
off Broadway too

said, on a long stroll
through Central Park. she was successful
because she did not like herself

on the stage, she proclaimed,
she was never herself, and she fell in love
with every character she portrayed  

every script was a better bio
than her own, and the playwrights knew
her better than she knew herself

and when our walk
was curtailed by a downpour, she dragged me
into a crowded cafe

where she knew half the patrons
and the wait staff, and they all knew the different
personas she had owned, on the dry stage

rain now forced her to choose  
which selves to keep, and which to lose
while she sipped scalding tea

with me, on a grey wet afternoon,
only hours before she would again be under  
the spell of the hot lights,

and read verses from the pens of prophets,
poets--those who purloined her soul for the price
of admission, to a place without self loathing

She paints a pretty picture
An artist, one of a kind.
Paints with only shades of red,
all of them straight lines.
She paints a pretty picture
But her canvas is out of space.
She wants to look beautiful,
"The dress, mom, I need it to be lace"
She paints a pretty pictures
But here's the twist,
He paint brush is a razor
Her canvas is her wrist.
She wants to make it stop.
She's running out of time
It's not just on her body,
But always on her mind.
She paints a pretty picture,
She wishes it would end
She wants to just give it up,
If only she had a friend.
She paints a pretty picture,
This time it's too deep.
She's finally given up,
"My soul now you can keep"

Let he be merciful to those who sin,
the Protector to whom I swore thus.
Let her bless with light my kin,
the Mother who always protects us.
Life God, who defends my being
and watched over me,
Death Lord, the accompanying king,
I always proudly welcome thee.
For I pledge my life to you miserably,
though, I do it unconditionally.

It'll come around again soon, a harkening back to things like the moon.
Feelings in our core, a primal state, like we were before.
Not cave(wo)men or primitive society full of biblical piety,
but an advanced race with a separation between face time and a real face.

We will remember who we are. We want grass on our bare feet instead of a gas pedal in a car.
We won't waste touch on things lesser than a person we love who loves us just as much
Sounds of drums and harmonious hums will fill our ears and our eyes will cry tears to water flowers that have smells that sink to the wells of our humanity.

We will be free, from ourselves to enjoy, ourselves.

The chiming of church bells.
My heart is louder.
Lines of roses guide me toward the light,
the real gold slowly melting on the horizon.
Taking away my last breath of real freedom.
Burning lanterns desperately imitating the stars in the night air
while the silver crowned me as the queen of disaster.
My white veil painted my face with black lace,
lightened up by the moonlight.
Dancing in the night as he whistles my name.
Don't make me cry!
I can see, that once I was blind, scared that I wont find
all the answers. Because this... is the last time

when i was younger
i was never able to pour
my hands shook too much
trembling with each thought
each drink i attempted to serve
would splash right out
i put too much force, too much pressure
or simply didn't give enough
i'd shake the cup
the spout
change my mind on the direction
flighty and afraid to give
there were many stains
in my childhood
some never washed out.

slowly i learned
how to steady my hand
my enthusiasm sparked over many glasses
passed around to visitors
a bartender
with no cost
i searched for myself
in the midst of others
in the missing hours
in the scattered napkins
i never stayed long enough
to learn if they liked the drink

eventually my arms grew weary
all of the vessels
heavy and solid
they wore on my mind
i had given too much
it was only when i had stopped pouring drinks
that another's lips
asked for a sip
with hesitation
i poured a cup
...
he did not drink
instead we spoke
while the ice melted into the glass
finally he took a taste
of the watered down basin
i was sure he would spit it out
we had waited too long
and i didn't think it was good in the first place
he looked up from his glass
and i felt conscious
of my freckles
my crooked smile
the way i laugh when i’m nervous
i wanted nothing more than to melt away
when he politely asked if i would pour him another cup
as he had finished his

and then that i knew
that this cup was meant for him.

we shared our drinks many times
he poured me new and exciting tastes
and i returned the favor
there was always the right amount
of sweet in the drinks he served
happiness was found in the cabinet
where our cups clinked together

until the day i found myself
waking up, stumbling around,
and my cup had grown
confused, unsure
i poured his drink
he sipped his morning coffee
but there was some remaining when he left
how could that be?
i asked myself
glancing around, expecting the sunlight to whisper me the answer
i grabbed my cup and ran off
not wanting to let the drink go to waste
but not knowing what to do.

through the street
through the grass
i wasn't sure what i was looking for
when i saw them pass into my gaze
they gestured me over
the blanket beside them, a gesturing hello
we spoke of the trees and souls
and how one could fall in their sleep
the wind tickled our hair
as our colors fell into one
natural and free
we laughed and i remembered the cup
burning in my hand
not empty
i placed it in their hand
as if that was what i was supposed to do
i told them i had made this drink
and given it away, but some remained
without realizing that it could be wrong to share
a smile was all it took
for me to realize
that this cup is made for more than one.