These are all just bad beginnings
in my search for a show-stopper,
a jaw-dropper,
trying to be just the right balance
of sarcastic and lovely,
the right balance of writer
that I idealize and am not,
of course,
what am I, a narcissist?

I'm trying to put into words
the feelings I told you I danced
because they are wordless (spaceful)
and because of you
I have to say them with voice;
what a dilemma is this--

That when I tell you with movement
what I can't say
you put me in the place
of having to voice it and now
I have no words
other than bad beginnings.

So is that it?
When I word to you
instead of dance for you (for me?)
what you have to return is a nothing,
a less-than-nothing saying,
saying nothing, leaving me

hurt and confused because
maybe there was a something
in all your nothing that I can't find--
because we are dealing in words now,
and I'm a movement reader.

And I know I will forgive you for this
but I won't forgive me for knowing that.

Even while I'm still so angry, it just reveals
my pathetic (patient?) desperation for your love,

But I didn't say this right.
I need to move (dance) this.

You're in a never ending cycle of telling yourself you are never quite good enough, asking "What am I lacking?" What a trick you play on yourself, and it seems you have lost yourself while you question your worth.
Come to me, let me help build you up. Feel me right here as I put your insecurities to sleep. Let me remind you even at your worst that you will always be enough, remind you that you are deserving, and that you are worthy, until you believe it for yourself.

-Rebecca Cerrone

they asked...
"why do you write most when you're sad?"

it took me awhile to think.
but didn't answer.

I just started writing
then realized,
because no one will understand
if I tell them they would laugh

if i tell them of what I really feel,
the dreams and hopes, or of what person I've always wanted to be

they wouldn't understand
some would think it's nonsense and some will try to listen but it won't any make sense

because we are all in our own.

everyone are busy saving their own lives

and happy poems?

it's hard for me to take time and jot the fleeting feelings of how the flowers bloom in spring and how summer gives me the time to contemplate on an infinite waves

I just want to feel the moment, for myself.

Then I would feel better.

just like writing sad poems,

it would make me feel better.

The tradition of marriage,
Bourgeois blackmail and baggage,
Is it all a bargain for men?
Is this what white weddings meant?
All the love that is lost,
And what is the ultimate cost?
A divorce court pizza,
Magistrate smirks like Mona Lisa,
Four corners, one for each,
Dog gets the crust, if it can reach,
Cats get the anchovies,
Were white weddings for phonies?
When is the revolution?
Blancmange brides for pollution,
Bridesmaids-Little Bo Peeps on crack,
Does society cut us some slack?

We joined the bourgeoisie,
All ends in tears and hypocrisy.

She stretched out across the bed,
her body curved in serpentine suggestion.
Seductive whispers, bedroom eyes
and the beckoning motion of her hand.

What sinister intentions are behind
this divine invitation to partake
in the pleasures of our flesh?

Many things are needed to live
Hunger is satisfied by food
Water sates our thirst
Love keeps the soul alive

But those who create
They feel an additional need
Sanity is kept through creation
The release of thought into matter

Carpenters, Artists, Poets, creators all
What was not there but now exists
A deep love is held for creator to creation
An idea brewed, bourn, and born.

Life is not life to those who create
When creation is taken from them