The day I turned 18,
I took a look at my life.
Searched out every little
Thing that I didn't like,
And cut it out.
Some of those things
-Like fear-anger-hesitation-
Kept trying to come back,
So I took little things,
A ring, an elastic, a piece of string,
And I used them to remember.
I could have gotten a tattoo.
But I didn't.
Because, I won't need to remember forever.
One day, I will win.
I won't need to remember to be brave,
To be kind, to be passionate.
One day, I will be all of those things.
I can shuck off those training wheels
Because my life itself will be the reminder.

I feel trapped inside
My own
Existence,
Totally unable to escape it
Unless by doing the unthinkable.

I take a package of
Sticky notes to work
And steal a few precious
Heartbeats to commit my thoughts
To paper,
Forever immortalizing them.
These notes decorate my fridge,
Monuments that will long outlive me,
Reminders of those heartbeats
Where, during the pumping of my blood,
I was actually alive.

I clean up everyone
Else's messes
And thus I make my living,
But can it really be called that?
A living?

Day begins.
Breathe in.
I make the coffee, and attempt
To open my eyes.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Off to work. To the broom
And the dustpan
And the beats of my heart
I will never get back.
Music helps, but it's not immortal.
Even the best of playlists gather dust.
My job is important, they say.
I don't believe them.
Maybe if I could just see what difference it makes,
Who my work impacts,
That there is proof that I am doing something right
Other than an empty pat on the back
And an obligatory paycheck,
Maybe then, it would be worth it.
Maybe it wouldn't **** away my soul
Like it does.
But maybes don't pay the rent,
And they certainly don't replenish my soul.

Only words make me alive.
But it is too late for that.
I was born with a gift
I'll never be able to use,
A sanity I'll never be able to reclaim.
I was born a few centuries too late.
Or maybe I was born with a soul
In a soulless world.
Where has life gone?
How can anyone live like this?
How can they exist
Rather than actually live?

Why am I here?
I can work such magic,
But there's never anyone to see.
So what does that
Leave me with?
A head and a heart full of
Words and a world that has
No place
For them.

In a world of puddles,
Dare to be an ocean.

You left two months ago.
There's no pretty way
There's no polite way
To say what you did.
With barely a word,
You
Packed
Your
Things
And
Left.
I healed. I recovered.
I moved on.
I haven't seen or heard
From you in two months.
I haven't really moved on.
Here I am, wide awake
At three in the morning.
Tell me this: if I've moved on,
Why are my lips begging to
Speak your name?

Two o'clock in the morning
Is my best friend.
The steam from my
Fourth cup of coffee
Curls out of my chipped old mug
To caress the frost-kissed window.
The golden glow of my lamp
Disguises the cold light
The moon casts upon the ice shrouded garden.
Two o'clock knows
All my secrets
All my tears
All my schemes.
My cup of coffee and I,
Holding the universe together
Just by our existence,
By our very essence.
For two o'clock in the morning
Is not for the faint of heart.
It is not for the lovers
Or the mundane
Or the sleepers.
Two o'clock in the morning
Is for the writers
For the poets
For the dreamers.
It is for the desperate
The passionate
The obsessed.
They join the stars
Dancing in the winter sky
In their wanderings through the darkness.
Once the mundane fade
Into the realm of sleep,
Heaven's teardrops pour
Their favor on upturned faces,
The faces of those who look to
The stars
The dark
The night
For guidance
For wisdom
And for inspiration.
And so, the daybreak finds me,
Something small dwelling with something enormous,
I and the universe.
It is, however, a part of me,
And I am a part of it.

Be the poetry you cannot write.

I feel like I'm just watching life,
Like an ocean trapped within a picture frame.
Then, there are those sometimes
When the sea breaks free of its frame
And swallows me whole.

Oh Darling,
If we're all sleepwalking together,
Then it looks like we're awake.
And I've been sleeping for oh so long,
I'm ready to wake up next to you.

You wonder why you feel chained to your life - trapped in your circumstances. You just want to go, and you don’t know why.

I know why. The answer is easy when you’re not the question.

It’s because something long ago and far away has gotten its roots into your bones and you know - you just know - it will never let go.

What do I want in life?

The wind in my hair,
The sun on my back,
The sounds of drumbeats
And rustling trees in my ears.
A well-loved book nearby,
And a pen in my hand
With a blank page before me.
A creek running over my toes,
Its melody blending with the trees,
And the grass beneath me.
The arms of the one I love around me.
That is all I want
From this life.
With only this,
I will be content for all of my days.

Growing old is gracefully (or not)
accepting the passage of time.
Generally speaking,
you have no choice.

Growing up is being slapped
in the face with the understanding
that you must be the hero
you have been waiting on
your entire life.

Growing up and growing old -
there's a difference,
but both will break your heart.

I write to make my voice heard
To put power behind every word.
Pen to page, things to say;
Change the world in a day.
I pick my fights with care
Jump walls like they aren't even there.
Pen to page, out of my way
Things to do, I cannot stay.

I write to run, I write to hide,
I write to fight the monsters inside.
Pen to page, I get away
But must again face the day.
Everyday a dangerous fight
Continues when I close my eyes at night.
Pen to page, my strength is new,
With just enough to get me through.

I write because it's what I'm told,
But words on a page is getting old.
Pen to page, what a chore!
Writing has always been a bore.
Words won't come; they never do.
This writer's block is nothing new.
Pen to page, just get it done,
A root canal would be more fun!

I write because I have to write,
An obsession with no end in sight.
Pen to page, words in my head
Remain unspoken, must be said.
A jumble of words begging to come out.
The power of some whisper, others shout.
Pen to page, words on a page
Stay strong and defy the age.