****!

mandolins seem to screech out a tune like the cries of those who loved you;
if not for us, for you, please thrive in a meadow verdant with joy.
the rickety stairs of my old home, approximately thirteen steps, creak,
reminding me of how your back must of wept and your soul must have cried from the weight heavy on your shoulders.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

why?

soar like a phoenix, reborn, where you are now free;
inhale the air much like the questionable smoke you breathed in here,
and appreciate where you are, high with the sensation of relief and not chagrin.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

i miss you already.

you lifted me so that i could touch the sky, remember?
on the ninth month nigh the end of the first day,
you let me discover myself.
were your shoulders heavy with the weight of loathing,
or sadness, then? i wonder.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie.

at the time where the clock strikes,
the hourglass runs out of sand,
at the time where my time in this realm is over,
come to me in the afterlife with a tad of Mary Jane?
i would bring the light, of course.

let us absorb artificial calm together,
engulfed in a beautiful oblivion,
like you promised we would.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

cry away the tears that have drowned you.

you are free now, dear girl,
let me light you a crimson candle to help guide you to safety.
you will be missed, treasured forevermore,
but i always did think that your beauty surpassed that of the living.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

goodbye.

I'm many things,
or so they say.
I love whomever,
they call me gay.
I believe in magick,
but that's not ordinary.
I'm always panicked,
but they say I'm crazy.
I was born a woman,
and so that's me;
On the lower tier
of our hierarchy.
So when you say may name,
do me the courtesy;
I'm not ashamed,
just let me be me.

Elle avait la peau de porcelaine,
des yeux malicieux,
une sourire narquois.
La forêt verdoyante
était sa place de refuge,
où elle pourrait parler à l'homme
dans la lune
sans problème.
Au dessous de la lumière formidable
de la pleine lune,
les personnes du village l'appelaient
la dame blanche.

Your laughter scares me
because I worry
that I will never here that chorus
again.

you have a peculiar, welcoming scent,
but your love is beautifully rough
like leather.

When my time comes
and I am to leave this life
for the one beyond,
do not bother letting my body
decay in a casket.
Please, allow me to be buried near the ocean,
and plant a lemon tree
above my heart.

Ink into feather,
feather onto parchment,
ink seeps from the feather,
ink onto parchment.

A sickly sweet smell
of a steaming liquid, tainted rouge from the cinnamon-
the potion of peace, what a brew;
will it help me sleep?
Surely, it was made with simplicity;
tea leaves in hot water,
no divination necessary.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bed-frame of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before night can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter frost.
Tell your secret to the running water in your shower,
And let it spill down the drain with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bedframe of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the broad cobblestone wall
And let the ivy cover it up until it’s tucked away within the cracks.
Tell your secret to the grains of sand
And let the ocean sweep away the remains.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to a crystalline raindrop,
And it will become one with the earth before whispering.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before dusk can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter’s frost.
Tell your secret to the running  waterfall,
And let it spill down into the river with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the tobacco in the pipe,
And let the smoke be lost within the brilliant clouds.
Tell your secret to the buzzing bumblebees,
And they will never say it aloud.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

Let us drink mead
before the army we lead!

Let us drink port
before we trample a field of lungwort!

Let us drink ale
before we hear the melody of the nightingale!

Let us drink,
soldiers,
to a battle we will win!

The spruce cries merry tears of sap,
like molasses or honey-
the bark holds no bucket or tap,
and now it's all sticky;
it cries, it stings with pine
as we strut through the forest
as if it were yours, as if it were mine,
let us venture, dearest.

Liar,
Liar,
heart on fire
hanging
from a noose
of wire.

Il m'a écrit une lettre
pour me dire,
«tu me manques»
La lettre, remplie de chagrin,
une paradoxe de la prospérité
et l'amertume,
cela à causé de la douleur à mon âme.
Par contre, la seule chose
que j'ai vraiment remarqué,
c'était qu'il m'a appelée
«jeune libellule».

Books lined with years' accumulation of dust,
old ink and an ostrich feather quill,
crippled purple plants on macrame hangings
and mustard yellow couches with wooden legs.
It was my library, my home.

I could tell you one big truth
- I love you -
before an even bigger lie.

I could tell you one devastating lie
- I will stay -
before an even more devastating truth.

She'll keep me from drowning,
she'll save me from my demise,
she is my guardian, my saviour
in my eyes.

It lights up an empty room
effortlessly, casually,
yet I still feel the presence
of darkness, lurking.

Please,
assure me,
inform me,
is this really true?

How did
this happen, I ask?
How did I come here
from out of the blue?

How far
did I drift on the sea?
How fair did
I sail?

I cannot believe
that this is reality,
it feels to much
like a fairytale.

Your lies are thick
like molasses, you know,
like honey or syrup.
Sweet,
too sweet to be real.
And yet,
you let them fall out of your mouth
like a running faucet,
it's so easy for you
to lie.

My body is ever present,
my voice speaking
a melancholic melody.

Yet, if I am here,
why do I feel a fog of nothingness
lick my feet?

Why is my throat
unable to produce any sound,
my lungs choking on oxygen
as I try to breathe?

How is my body alive,
but my eyes dead,
my soul stuck in an inevitable twilight,
a limbo?

Will I be found,
saved,
or sacrificed?

I have many a pencil,
but none of them
would be sufficient
to sketch the lines of your face
as you smile.

you drink the liquor
as if the more it flushes your cheeks
and widens your grin
and tears you up
will bring you luck.

I was busy chasing someone else
when I knew the love dissipated, disappeared.

And then a little blue bird came flying from a big blue sky, bringing a message not on its leg, but in its chirp.

There was another who knew me,
and then he watched me,
and then, well,
I suppose he liked me.

He was dashing, he was tall
he laughed a lot and smiled a ton!

I only ever saw him in the same place;
he helped all who entered,
gave them their bread and drink
and he liked to laugh with me.

Did he really like me?

I sure hoped so;
it would have been mutual,
reciprocated.

You like me?

Likewise.

I finally sent him a letter
tied to the leg
of the same little blue bird
that had told me many things.

I didn't know what he would do
at the time,
but he responded with such enthusiasm,
it was almost too much.

And so we went out
and talked over drinks,
and then he kissed me
after forgetting my name.

Well, it was fun while it lasted
but deep down, in my soul,
I knew it wouldn't last.

Your moral compass
was never the same
as my own,
your excuses rusty and
ever so transparent.

Thanks for the experience, though,
for the knowledge I now have,
and may you continue your life
peacefully.

you can look at poetry
with a logical eye,
but you would miss
the message
with lack of wisdom.

a scream as piercing
as a furious bolt of lightning
crashing violently against a peaceful midnight.
to cope with the loss
of someone who filled the empty, sorrowful void
in your soul
is abominable.

My blood is red,
the sky is blue
what must I do
to escape you?

The tulips are red,
the cornflowers blue,
I need to admit
I no longer admire you.

The fire you kindle within me,
lover mine,
whether you laugh or cry ile,
is a love that came early
travelling with dawn.

Love,
a lack thereof,
it's like being struck by
a bullet from above.

I didn't notice the transition
when I lost track of my age, the time;
I was always the eldest of five,
but my soul was always older than me
because of pain,
hence the wisdom.

I would've thought that now,
these words would be slander,
proof of my shortcomings;
I should have had vigilance!
I should have taken time to heed!

But no,
I let the soft feeling of desirable comfort
worm it's way into my chest;
it feels ever so iniquitous,
ever so lovely.

you don't gotta love yourself
before loving someone else,
but whether or not you do love yourself
will change your way of changing others.

I don't see why
you would choose me,
I don't know why
you're here.
No, I cannot deny,
I don't see why
so I must be lucid dreaming.

I cary emotions
deep in my soul
where no one cares venture,
not even me.

Alas, it's tiring,
keeping all this sadness,
this remorse,
this love
buried deep down.

It's a shame,
really,
that I cannot share these feelings.

At this point,
it's like heavy luggage,
always and never on my mind.

Go to sleep,
enter your world
full of dreams,
and soon you'll see
the sun rising above
the beech tree.

I know what I saw,
what I felt,
it was dangerous,
mischievous.

So please,
I beg of you,
take my word as gospel
and hide from the shadows
that lurk within you.

my body may remain the same,
but i feel unexplicable pain
as though the skin and sinew,
the muscles and fascia
transforming me
into the monster that I am.

Cogs spin in my brain,
and I've been graciously informed
that I have no heart,
that I am a machine.

Perhaps it is true,
for when I hold a crimson rose,
it ****** my finger,
and out comes gasoline.

Silence is loud,
when listening to a draw of breath,
the rythm of a beating heart,
how unbearably quiet.

I pick up my mandolin,
made of fine mahogany,
and strum the eight strings.

My fingers rehearse a melody,
one that I know
better than myself.

It cures the silence,
how pleasing.

I'd rather die by the hands of an assassin
using a rusty arrow or a dull blade
than allow you
to take my maidenhood.

Firstly,
do not allow yourself
to be controlled.

Secondly,
indulge, but not too much.

Thirdly,
enjoy every moment
and learn from those moments.

Fourthly,
gratitude is important.
Use it.

And fifthly,
do not tolerate hatred,
rather,
diffuse it and be kind.

I stare at every crease,
every name on the map,
waiting for the opportunity
to begin my research
in history.

You're rather agog,
enthralled, really.
Marauding youths,
they are reckless, audacious,
imprudent.
How it interests you so,
how you yearn to live like them,
I cannot comprehend what passes through your mind.
Do tell, why?

I pluched a petal as white as a dove.
"She likes me," I exclaimed, a glint of hope
occupying my eyes.
Another dainty petal plucked.
"She likes me not," I pouted, my lips twitched
in disappointment.
The last petal plucked with the delicacy of silk.
"She likes me!" I smiled.
Oh, Marguerite, she must like me!
The daisy said so!