I search for him in my sleep.
His name falling from moon kissed lips,
and slipping into the tangled sheets.

I reach for him.
beyond blurred shadows and blanket barriers,
Arms stretching across vacant space so hopelessly.

Nightmares stay on the edge.
Pawing in frustration that his adoration elevates me,
placing me upon a pedestal far beyond their monstrous grip.

Night fades in a kaleidoscope of rising colors.
Crumbling the darkness into opulent  light,
leaving me always breathless in this unspoken place.

Kissing you is like kissing unicorn horns
It would never happen

I had to call the cops on my ex-boyfriend last Thursday:

Stop looking at me like I did something to you.
I have campus police on speed dial, if you do not leave, I will call them.
You need to stop pretending like I did something wrong to you.
I am dialing the number right now.
Look at me. Look at me! Stop looking at me like you're a victim! I didn't do anything wrong to you. I don't deserve this.
Look, it's ringing. You need to leave.
First, you need to stop looking at me like I did something wrong to you.
No. Leave.
Look at me!
Leave.

You feel a special kind of guilty when you have a stalker. You don't want to believe that someone you ever loved would to this. You really don't want to believe that someone you were ever intimate with, or someone who has pictures that you painted for them in their room would do this to you. You don't want to feel vulnerable. And you really don't want to feel that every few seconds, you need to be looking over your shoulder for them. You just want them to leave you alone.

I can feel a poem rising at the tip of my fingers tonight. I can feel them revolting, buzzing with anger; demanding to be heard.
And so I tie my hair back, pick up my pen, ever the docile servant to my emotions.
What do you wanna talk about, I ask them?
The buzzing stopped short, for the first time with some hesitancy, they answer we don't know.
And so we sat in companionable silence, with pen held. A hundred fluttering thoughts, but none I can connect to form a poem.
Write down, they say, write what we have always wanted to say, and so I let my emotions glide my fingers over the page, scribbling my brain out of the story, letting heart play to its fullest content.
And so heart wrote the softest words,
And in silence my brain slept.

You live only in memories
for me, memories
and ashes on the floorboards.
It's strange to think
that you're out there
living and breathing
and moving about
in a world that I'm not
a part of.

I think of songs that we sang
bruises we made
broken guitar strings
ragged throats
disembodied words
wasted glances
and it all just sits there
misty and faint
in little corners of my mind
and I don't miss you at all.

the human condition
is rarely terminal.

she always crossed the street so suddenly,
she would stand right on the curb as cars flew past her.
she wanted to drop out of high school.
run away, and just live her ******* life.
she hated being tied down to something or someone.
she taught me life shouldn’t be taken so seriously
and to live in the moment more often.
she was this mysterious, fearless girl
who wanted nothing more than to figure out this huge ****** up world.
h.d.

Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.

If you want to be an oak,
think like an oak,
not like an acorn.