So when the trunks
circle you
too tight,
don't be afraid
when they intertwine
and circle their vibrancy
around you.
Let them contain you.
Let them contain you
as a mother & father
containing all the atoms
of a second hand.
So when their vibrancy
turns to brown,
and you dance the
skies depths,
you will look back
on the intertwining veins,
and you will give them
all the atoms in a minute
hand.

Cliche: The world is yours for the taking--
       The last poem in a purple notebook--
Creative (possibly): The world is yours for the making--
       150 degrees--
where Africa is the continent placed
       UpSiDeDoWn
and North America,
       against all logical sense,
is in the south.

       Little boy in sixth
grade.
       Go to the man who painted the walls white,
dropped textbooks in every teacher's lap,
       and taught them how to
babysit.

       Tell him that we
need more than one flavor
       to splash our palette.
A subtle flavor so small
       that it's dust-like.

Make him give us something
to change,
to express our love,
to make our blood dance with passion,
and permanently graffiti the walls
with our heart's emotion.

One night, Death came to visit me and I
Offered him a cup of tea.
He sat gracefully in a fragile chair
That had only ever known my
Grandmother
And said:
      "Young sir,
Have you anything with pomegranate?
      I find that it
traps more of the flavor."

I stood up--my hands trembling enough to cause an earthquake--
And fetched Death a cup
Of the oxblood fruit.
I tried to give Death the cup, my hands as bad as a scared tightope walker;
he
                  Refused.
And instead insisted I drink it.
(I didn't have the guts to tell him I hated pomegranate)
In the same instant my lips touched the hot crimson water,
A zipper opened across the face of death.

"Now, I have you."

I'm kind of nothing much,
Just a silly girl who admire boys as such
Those who play in bands and like
Boys who can ride the skate or bike

Though I also like to play the guitar
But guitars don't like me, just left me a scar
In my finger where a ring should stay
From the one I love when it comes the day

Some days I dream to be an astronaut
Watching the night sky everynight til I caught
A cold that always starts with a sneeze
And ends with runny nose, oh dear! Oh Geez!

I made an honest mistake so I need to add more lines
That even though I fail sometimes
I always need myself to remind
That a dream never dies

So there's my little autobiography

Leigh Herondale  *February 2015

I live in my own world
Inside of this cruel world
Awaiting the next world

©

All I really want
To do right now
Is quit social media,
Put down my phone,
Perfect my french,
Raise a dog.

I would happily suffer
   because of how much I love you
I will put myself through misery
    just so you feel no pain
I would walk on flames
     and put them out
         so you can walk through
I will drive myself insane
     so you can have no part of the blame
I just wanna believe
        that you love me
               that much too

effort;
ˈefərt/
noun

to her, is studying during the wee hours of the morning
to him, is the time you spend asking how his day went
to her, is the lovely pair of shoes you got for her that flatters her dress
to them, is the days you showed up despite being ill
to him, is the admission slip into an ivy league university
to her, is the work you left behind to attend your uncle's funeral
to them, is the messages you send out, asking how they're doing

to you,
is to get out of bed each morning, even when you don't want to
is to accept that it is, by God's will that you are where you are
is to understand that your body is a gift and you will cherish it
is to learn that you don't live to please everyone
is to stand up for yourself, even when you are too timid to speak
is to fight for what you want, and never backing down
is to pick yourself up every time you fall, and come back stronger
is to fix yourself, piece by piece
is to unravel your mind &  live with the memories, even if they **** you

effort to you, isn't effort to her
effort to him, isn't effort to you
effort to them, isn't effort to him

but that is okay, we know you're trying

*we know

she realized
she wasn't one
of life's winners
when she wasn't sure
life to her was some dark
***** secret that
like some unwanted child
too late for an abortion
was to be borne
alone

she had so many private habits
she would ******* sometimes
she always picked her nose when upset
she liked to sit with silence
in the dark
sadness is not an unusual state
for the black woman
or writers


she took to sneaking drinks
a habit which displeased her
both for its effects
and taste
yet eventually sleep
would wrestle her in triumph
onto the bed

poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
by silence
sometimes after midnight or just before
the dawn
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compose a poem
no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
beyond love
it never says "accept me" for poems seek not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not delight discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious


which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say