I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,

the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,

the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,

the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,

the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;

I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.

I love to
get
high
off you;

I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.

Let's
roll
another.

Funny how a photograph can pump blood
I only have one of you, it isn't mine
it sits here backlit
shared with all that would gladly drown in those mischief eyes.
Your smile, a moment of calm, a second of perfection caught, always brings my own.
There is no beauty like yours, no work of art has ever made me want to overflow with passion the way you do. I could write countless poems, a thousand odes to your dimples, a million sonnets to your curls, a billion lovesongs to your eyes to no avail. So I'll laugh at your jokes, and be a sturdy shoulder, a friend.  I'll wish the best for you always, while your heart keeps my secret safe. Poets shouldn't fall in love with the unloved, there aren't enough words to describe the agony.

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

The water dances
silently under the
moonlight,
streetlights
reflecting onto
the river
in hues of gold and cerulean,
fish fluttering to the
surface
in arhythmic,
unpredictable
time sequences.

I sit
near the metallic railing
that guards
the liquid edges;
I inhale slowly
as my eyes
absorb all the hidden
color in the darkness
of the blackened
summer night.

The bushes arch toward me,
extending their leafy green fingers
in a hushed reassurance.
The mulch under my
lower body
is slightly poky
but weirdly soothing,
and I seem to melt
into the ground
as I lounge in a silent Indian style.

The back of my head
occasionally
grazes against the tree
behind me
as the sprinklers
just miss
my relaxed frame.

In long waves and splashes
of confusion,
self-doubt,
and loneliness,
I manage to retreat
to some, if only temporarily,
state of serenity
as I perch on the shoreline.
It's as if I lose myself
below the water,
all the heaviness drowning
& sinking to the bottom,
and my much lighter
outer shell
waits, wading on the
nearby soil.

Sometimes I have
this fear
that I'll always be

             alone,

one of those people
who just
"isn't destined to be
in a (loving) relationship,"
and in the meantime
all I get
are half-genuine,
wholly-awkward
"it's just not your time" 's.

Will there ever be a time
that is mine,
where I can let
my inner hurricane
fizzle out,
waves of infinite
heart to extend to
another, crashing down
onto a sandy white beach?

My spine suddenly
tingles,
existential crisis
swimming up and down
my icy veins,
clogging my
arteries;
shortly before fainting
from the crushing
weight of it all,
the sound of an airplane
flying overhead
snaps me out of my
analytical coma,
and the
ripples
put me back to tranquility.

Is life nothing more
than a series of moments
strung together
like a poorly crafted
beaded bracelet,
the flimsy string base
nearly broken
under the weight
of the hand-woven design?
Or is the design not even
of our own creating,
fitted and shoved together
by someone else,
our will and drive
bent
to fall in line,
in pattern
with what we are
supposed to do?

I've been here for a lifetime,
or at least a quarter of one,
but the glue that
keeps me together,
it feels sealed,
stuck together
under the command
of something or someone else,
some entity that is not myself.

Day after day
feet following
in military style march,
left right left,
pumps beating hard
on the pavement
running, propelling me forward.

My robotic heart
pumps lead,
tongue tastes metallic
as it formulates
the expected utterances
for the ambitious woman.
Yes sir, yes ma'am,
achievements regurgitated
at pairs of ears
who listen merely
at how formulated,
premeditated phrases
may prove themselves worthy.
I aim no higher
than Mount Everest,
spitting my list
of captivating factors,
of perfected musings
of this unlivable habitat
I am to call life,
when all I truly yearn to do
is scream out
the loudest yelp,
that, no,
this isn't all that fascinating,
and, yes,
I would rather
pucker my
dried, worn out lips
around a cold glass
and inhale some
clarity and serenity.

Is a life that's driven,
that's focused,
that's ****** hollow,
its meat devoured by ambition,
is that a life that's lived,
or have I given
everything
away?

How am I to know
when it's okay to surrender?

My body begs me
for sweet relief,
to let my limbs, my digits,
all of my organs,
to let them go numb,
falling deep down
into a dark place
where I have vehemently
refused to
stumble
for many moons.

I keep my carcass
a hollowed shell,
swearing off any inclination
of relaxation,
of letting down my guard,
forbidding myself
to wander to the place
that frightens me most.

My beating chest,
it fights back
with fierce vigor
against my head's resounding no's
as your lips,
soft and succulent,
beseech my own,
our tongues
exchanging salutations
in a hushed, velvety
vernacular
that seems completely
of our own creation.

As my brain runs hurriedly
a million miles in a direction
somewhere southwest of here,
my figure melts,
      oozing
into your muscular hands
as they caress my face,
sweeping my hair
behind my ears.

Panic sets into my mind,
my breathing grows heavy,
but instead of bolting for
the door,
I draw your frame closer to mine,
wrestling a copacetic convulsion of angst and jitters
as your fingernails
gingerly
scrape
down
my
spine.

One of my favorite hobbies
is watching people
on the train.
Some on their
daily commute,
dressed in suits,
hurriedly sipping
coffee,
checking their
wrists with
frequency,
ensuring they
arrive not even a
minute late.
So many,
myself included,
travel along to
their own
soundtracks,
earbuds helping
them to tune out
the cabin noise
around them.
Bodies swaying
back and forth,
movement in sync,
limbs dancing
the train's tango,
left, right,
forward, and back,
and for the encore,
we all jolt and jive hard
as the wheels
screech to a stop
halfway down the
green line.