As the sun fell,
her eyes glistened like many sunsets
filled with wonder and adventure -
two pools of never-ending light
reflecting in the movement of colors.
As the moon rose beyond the horizon,
it left her eyes twinkling like stars.

On even the coldest night,
she couldn't see the warmth, the magic,
her eyes gave the world as she gazed upon the landscapes of life as it slowly passed her by.

"You never finish anything."
Her words pierced my tongue.
I sighed. Hands on hips,
I looked at the broken bulb that flickered at me.

My foot started tapping.
Shifting my weight onto it, bent knee,
I looked sassy.

With the oven steaming, I started backing away.
I didn't like the smell, that's all.
"You're a failure, you know that?"
I knew it. She knew it.

People who met me could see potential,
but my eyes, they screamed disappointment.
I may as well have tattoo'd it on my forehead.

I'd wear it well.
Like Scarlett's letter,
imprinted for everyone to see.

A waste of time, she'd said.
That's all I was to her.
An embarrassment.

And she was right

A puppeteer, you may call it,
the master of manipulation.
All his fingers hold the knots,
to the cracks in your foundation.

Hidden by your tall, lean shadow,
he lurks behind your back;
forward, with every move you make,
warlock takes his attack.

Each digit fidgets suddenly,
and your body seems to twitch;
the hands of time stop ticking now,
trapped in by the witch.

The only sound that you can hear,
is the crying of the dead;
a mournful, sad melody,
that plays often in your head.

You think, "maybe, i'll get a break",
he's tricked you into believing,
the more you do for him,
the less that you'll be breathing.

He takes you in and ***** you up,
and you would never know,
the strings in which he has you tied,
lets him be in control.

Dear, Pa –
it’s your once-son
Danny – or better known
as Sandy, or Annie or;
Ann-Marie and to some
folks on 19th Street,
I’m known as a sinner, a ******!
My life is a movie, like
a catwalk model; and
I play a very special person, who’s got
no-one to lean on, no mommy to hold, and;
Wait, I know her. She’s familiar to me like,
I’ve known her since the beginning of time, but
right now, in physical form, she stands
in front of me in the;
mirror, Pa. Yes, I am her reflection, no
I mean she’s my reflection and I realize
that; all along, this whole time, I told myself
a big-fat lie; as a child, hatred and anger
were the tears I cried. So –
this one’s for you, my king,
my liege; this one’s the promise
that we’ll keep; this one’s the bond
between our sheets; but this one’s the
one that’ll point at you; before I lift
the middle one, to say, “***** You!”
But hey, Pa – here I am. A
woman, not a man. A bonafide,
sophisticated lady in minx
with, real diamond earrings and
fierce wings; those nails, my nose
and my lips – make me feel like I’ve
power at my fingertips.
Tonight is my show – it’s my time
to shine. And I’m going to **** it
like I know I can – so thank you Pa,
and thank you, ma’am. For giving
me the strength to be who I am.

Like the moon, her eyes glisten in the midnight garden
Daisies delicate in the soft breeze by her feet
Fire roars in her heart, but stays frozen to the touch
Lips like pink roses in the spring
The clouds lay in wait for a storm - she gazes
From a million miles away, stars fluoresce her gloomy skies
Aids her wandering mind to see the beauty of the night
A small nose points up as she watches
Birds soar swiftly to their nests for safety
At her feet, rodents scurry home to avoid their dark predators

The hours draw long
She stands still as the world continues to shift around her.


Gloomy skies shift to blue
Her skin warms, lips like dark wine
Daisies turn towards the rising sun
The once glistening eyes ‘come dull, her heart to stone
Stars vanish in the light, clouds fade away
Her mind stays put just as her feet
The once midnight garden becomes a field of infertility
Her dreams gone like the moonlit skies
She waits for night again.

I kept staring;
She stared in return.
When I blinked, she blinked right back --
delayed, but twice as hard;
the same, but different.
Stood slouched —
almost hunched over.
She wore the same outfit as I,
but it didn't seem to fit her the same.
I tucked my shirt into my trousers,
she did the same. It looked better on me
than it did her.
Her hair was tangled.
I could tell because it looked just like
mine used to. Hers was more voluptuous than
mine ever was. I could almost hear her speaking,
like telepathy. But her voice sounded different,
deeper, more pronounced --
I couldn't put a finger on where I recognized it.
She didn't say anything in particular;
it was as if she didn't say words at all.
The way she mumbled sounded different --
almost foreign.
It was soothing, almost refreshing to hear,
because somehow I understood her.
Her face was pointed like a soft mountain top.
She looked almost...
disappointed when I noticed. Nose fairly flat —
Mine had a small bump. Her lips were uneven,
showing gums when she faked a smile;
I never opened my mouth to grin, it was unbecoming.
Her forehead was long and wide,
big enough for two brains --
I bet she's smarter than I am.
I noticed she was tired — I was tired, too.
My eyes are blue. Hers were grey,
similar to the sky when it rained —
almost like it was waiting for a rainbow.
I lifted my hand to touch hers,
she did the same right after. I could feel
the warmth of her hand on mine. It felt as if
she was a long-lost sister, someone
I hadn't seen in a long time.
An instant connection.
I don't remember ever meeting her, but
it was like I knew everything about her.
We let go at the same time.
She became a stranger again.

"If I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I'd change a few things,
and shake up the flow.

I might go to class,
be where I should be,
Say and wear what I wish,
And only be me.

Ignore the ignorant,
hold dearest friends close,
Respect authority,
see where it goes.

Have love and compassion,
a watchful mind,
Keep ears wide open,
and always be kind.

Harbour a strong heart,
let others be shared,
Make sure I remind them,
that I always care(d).

So, if I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I might change a few things,
and see where it goes."

Quiet Jane,
Your mind was insane,
Your thoughts fell to the
bottom of the earth into
a pit of burning fire and
as it fell, it yelled out your name.
Oh, Quiet Jane.

Pictures around the room,
Framed with macaroni and glue.
Windows stained with the cracks from
the fist of Quiet Jane.

Empty cartridges laying on the floor,
Holes in the wall and in the door.
Twenty old bottles of Gordon's gin,
Smoky room, the walls are caving in.
Pacifiers scattered around the table,
Unused, but open nappies in a cradle,
But no small child seen wandering the hallways,
What's going on, where's Quiet Jane?

She thinks he hung the moon.
A princess with her shining knight
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

As he proclaimed her beautiful, she swoons.
He stands in black; she walks in white
She thinks he hung the moon.

Pinot grigio in crystal poured by noon;
He reads to her in the yellow sunlight -
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

By night, he has her wrapped in a cocoon
Fire ablaze, she clenches his arms so tight
She thinks he hung the moon.

By morning, it’s their honeymoon
He kisses her hard with all his might
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

And then, by the end of June,
Inside her something stirs, a delight
She knows he hung the moon,
In love, she fell, strongly with him so soon.

We see things that other females
don’t pay a tuppence to.
Like a half-burned cigarette tail,
Your osculation of deep, dense rouge—
A secret trusted only by two.
With our own hands, we mimic time
And manipulate the world you once knew.
Falling in love with a writer is a faulty design.

To your heart, we assail
With words plunked to a tune;
In your soul, with great force, we impale.
From a love-front angle of view
You might feel a tad misconstrued,
like a poorly mixed cocktail.
Ricochet from baseline to fault line,
But every time you pull through ‘cause you knew,
That falling in love with a writer is a broken design.

When we close our eyes and slowly inhale;
We hear the laughter of a family in an empty room
And unveil the retold, recycled tales.
Picturing why the dust rests less heavily on one broom,
And can smell the meal Ma cooked when they came home from school.
From the underworld and past the skyline,
We scour everything down to its last detail.
Falling in love with a writer is a grueling design.

To us, your eyes flourish like flowers in June
With lips– silky like cabernet wine.
And although sometimes we forget to say we love you,
Remember that falling in love with a writer can be a beautiful design.

About "old times". people i knew.
people that pass by, hardly breathing.
the people I knew; that don't breath at all.
the ones that left the world with their necks
bent into a halo that hung from their chandelier.
the husbands and friends who find missing
bricks in the side of their houses.
The swing doesn't swing anymore,
There's no rope to hold it.

Out the back window, I stared.
I never used to be so absentminded.

You could almost hear the music
struggling to exit the broken speakers.
With every note, so imperfect,
creating its own melody.

You'd never really notice.
And I shouldn't have either.

Hand prints became visible in the day light.
***** swirls covered the glass around me.

This is how I spent my time.
Watching the back window, wasting time
and falling into a trance.

Often, I drifted somewhere.
I was moving when no one else was.

The sun fell on my skin
as it broke through the clouds and tiny
swirls in the glass.

That was my remedy.