Sleepytime tea
Soft purple sheets
Puzzles that hurt your brain
Good book
Reading nook
Any kind of rain
Picture of me at two by the lake
Striped pajama pants
Facebook invite
Natural light
Beautiful tortoise-shell cat
My bed
Real bread
Dark chocolate (70%)
No worries
DQ Flurries
And afternoons with no end.

9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

I saw her again tonight
That pretty, angry girl among so many others.
Her hair fell over her dark eyes,
A bitter frown on her pale face.

Her words are so brutal and curt.
She writes of stupid, ugly things
Battered, tattered things
I can't help but wonder
If that girl who hides behind
Blue skies and sunshine smiles
Popular friends and a rule-all attitude
Has a method to her madness.

I long to ask her, though I know I'd be met with trouble
Speak quietly and ask,
"What are you so angry at?"
Is it the world?
Her life?
The parallel white scars on her left wrist
Long healed, but unwilling to disappear?
Why does she feel like tomato juice
In a world of bubbly citrus?

Does she want to be relieved
Of whatever burden pains her?
Can she find the power
To release herself from her wrought-iron cage?
Does she need a true friend
As badly as she needs a real smile?

Pretty, angry girl, I wish I could help you.
I really do.

Sobs echo
Through warm thick air,
Tears falling on
Tangled ****** locks of hair.
She curls in a corner
Beneath the stairs,
Alone and cold
With an awful story to share.
She has never ever said
That life was even a little bit fair
Because for her whole life,
No one has been there to care.
Nobody helped her repair
Her mind when her senses
Became hopelessly ensnared
In the lies he told her,
The oaths her made her swear.
And she hadn't a friend to make her
See danger when she was unaware.
He grinned his drunken smile
As he sat in a chair
Made of her tears
And her worries and prayers
Because in her life,
There is nobody there.

A drop of alcohol
Slips down my throat,
Giving me life
Helping me to float.
Heavy amber liquid
Resting on my lips
And crimson drops of blood
Drawing lines around my hips.
Oh how did you
Know my vice?
'Cause now I'm empty inside,
Though you're acting so nice.
No matter what you do,
Your face I'll always hate
Because you got me drunk and what
Happened next you still won't say is ****.

I hold hands with my boyfriend
As we walk - no - dance
Down the tiled halls of the purgatory called high school
But I'm not listening to his voice,
Not thinking of him,
Not his smile,
Not his eyes,
Not his hands skimming my skin,
Not even kneeling on his bedroom floor,
Being his *****, somehow
Reveling
In tongue and *** and moaning,
His hand on the back of my head.
I think not of his **** or
Anything it stands for - no - my fancies
Wander over the girl next to me,
My lust dripping like honey over her
Slender shoulders,
Collarbones,
Flowing over the gentle swell of her *******,
Around her supple waist,
Smooth hips and perfect *** unknowingly enticing me,
Seduction even more potent for being
My own secret knowledge.
My heart tumbles over dark precipices,
Falling from one side to another
Men - no - women - no - men - no - women
Women - no - men - no - women - no - men
An eternity of labyrinthine puzzles,
Guilty glances and
Late-night imaginings in shameful ecstasy
Before an answer settles like a
Stone that stirs up a muddy pool before clearing into crystal.
Both.
Not men - no - women,
But men - and - women.
And I will stand proud,
My dress and her skirt swishing softly as we walk,
My hand and his hand, together, as we talk.

I sigh, my soul bubbling up from between
Rose petal lips,
Silent arpeggios of emotion falling from
Eyes, mouth, ears
Shimmering like heat waves on an empty road
I am in a mood for words
Deep words, warm and silty as a
River bed in summer
Quiet thoughts sinking like stones
Through endless evenings, barely rippling
The still, glowing sunsets
Soft words, like my grandmother's creased hands holding out
Smooth bits of sea glass for her granddaughter to smile at,
Clapping her grubby fingers
Dreamy whispers glide across silver lakes,
Reflections of dark velvet and diamonds
Stretched over the bones of the universe
I am in a mood for words
Heavy words and light words
Separating heaven and hell, I float betwixt
Drifting aimlessly in front of drowsy fires,
Pages littering my lap, books spineless from re-reading
My slow breath, thudding heart becoming a dictionary
My mind sleeping under darkness, softly
Gentle whispers of labyrinthine poems
Infinite, eternal

I am Tiana
On my feet until I can't go any longer
Promising myself everything will be worthwhile
And that all my dreams will come true.
I am Merida
Trying to find my own path
Desperately trying to evade my fate
Staying brave for everyone, including myself.
I am Rapunzel
A little bit conflicted sometimes
Dreaming of an adventure
But not to betray what she knows.
I am Mulan
Willing to be unconventional
And ready to protect her home and family
From dishonor and shame.
I am Belle
Making the best of seemingly impossible situations
Searching for knowledge and beauty within words
Spreading light to the darkest of souls.
I am Elsa
Who just wants to be free
To be able to use her gifts
Without hurting the people she loves.
I am me
The girl who sang into a pink-and-white plastic karaoke machine
To "I Won't Say I'm in Love"
Who saw these women as strong and beautiful.
I am a princess
The author, main character, and narrator of my story
Dancing to the beat of her own drum
Taking life's problems and turning them into lessons.
I am a heroine in my own right,
Disney or no.

Delicately pink hearts gently unfurl
From nests of lively minds;
There is nothing weak about Southern women
We are supposed to wear ugly dresses,
Enamel bugs,
French scarves that wrap around and
Tie us all together from the inside out
Football and sassy new haircuts might not make faces look younger,
But they can lift spirits
And just because you spend all day advising others
Of their secret trials
Doesn't mean that you can hold your family in a cage,
Golden and happy though you may want things to be.
Remember that if you feel new, an outsider,
Your personal tragedies seeming too much to bear,
You will always find comfort in laughter
Especially if laughter through tears is your favorite emotion.
You might not pick up boys or money,
But friendship steeps in small salons
Like sweet tea.
Prickly sarcasm and pessimism aren't always the hallmarks
Of a heart devoid of caring,
It's just a natural response after two deadbeat husbands and
Three ungrateful children; somewhere in all of it is a promise
Of hope.
And even in a barren womb new life is discovered,
And even in death joy is found,
And even through pain,
Sisterhood blooms,
Delicate steel petals enveloping grieving hearts.

I keep staring
Tapping
Waiting
Refreshing
Hoping
For someone to like my poem
Or post
Or share.
I look at the vast number of people
Who have viewed other works
Liking
Commenting
And I want them to do the same thing
To my works
But I don't know why. When did
I start caring so much
About what strangers thought?