I'd faithfully promised
Myself and my friends
That all this was over
And I'd reached the end
Of my fawning and sighing
And tripping cloud nine -
I'd said I was finished
I'd said I was fine.

But I wasn't, you see,
And it all became clear
When I saw you again
For the first time this year:
You stood so **** near me
And smiled so wide
And shouted my name
And I melted inside . . .

I can't turn away now:
You stare so intensely,
You promise tomorrow,
And I love you immensely.
Thus, after the heartache,
The fear and the pain,
I'm back with a vengeance.
I'm back in the game.

Hello, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA, as you can see:
There's my little name, up there.
It's funny, see, 'cause I don't care
If my poems stink or ****
As much as does my ****** luck,
Because you'd never tell me true,
You'll trend my poems, like you do,
And make pretend it's a big deal
When - Hello Poetry, get real -
I don't deserve this great fanfare,
Me or my little name up there,
Which isn't actually my name.
I go by ORLA just the same
Because I pour my heart out here,
And don't want snooping friends to hear
How much my heart is hurt by HIM
Or how I can't stand HER or THEM . . .
I actually hate ME, to boot!
You see? Now, if I gave a hoot
About what anybody thought,
What they believed, or what they bought,
Do you think I'd let this poem get
This long and tiresome? You can bet,
I wouldn't. I'd have never written
Something when I was this smitten
With fatigue, grief, guilt, depression -
But I must end this griping session:
Goodbye, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA - This is me.

I send notes in bottles
to imaginary friends
on distant beaches
while combing my fingers
through the cold, white sand
looking for the sea glass
that will cut my hands
and throwing out seashells
because they aren't
nearly shiny enough.

I couldn't hide,
So I denied
That I had spied,
Cried,
Sighed,
and died
Inside,
In short
. . . I lied.

                  But I tried.