Like a breathe
passing our lips;
            we remain present,
            to the insatiable moments,
            that slowly pass us by the hour.

I stare into the well,
                                          Not feeling very well,
                                              Grabbing the vine,
                                                        Her­e I climb,
                                                               The vine snaps,
                                                          ­         cracks, and makes me trapped,
                                                        ­                      Oh just if,
                                          I could possibly fly,
                                Fly myself out of this dungeon,
                                    I have nothing to defend myself with,
                                                     If I find myself out of this maze,
                                    Press the replay button,
            On my life's screen,
the tears run from my eyes,
if they are even afraid of me,
oh how i try so very hard,
if Possibly,
just possibly,
I could possibly just fly.

in the head.
go to bed,
wake up and wed,
have some kids,
then you're dead.

Were you silent the day he left?
He'll crush you, but at least you'll feel something...
                  at least you'll feel something...
I've come to the conclusion that nobody's actually in control anyway.
We all want to be, but none of us are.
And if you think about it,
The comparison of people to mirrors and windows,
Well...
We aren't either.
We are opaque and non-reflective,
And what you see from the outside
Rarely scratches the surface of what's inside.
And I saw the moon in shades of red tonight,
And stupidly mistook the color as blushing.
But then the realization struck that it was fury;
The moon was furious with the sun
For his constant indecision,
For his periodical love for her,
For the ease with which he would change his mind...
The thunderstorms are continual these days,
And I know it's cliché,
But it really does rain all the time.
The rolling sighs of the water against the windowpanes inside my mind
Have become a habitual dance
With footwork as intricate as any fire and ice rose,
Any tango or waltz,
And nothing has really felt like this before,
               but at least I feel something...
At least you'll feel something...
I just want to feel alive again.
Make me feel alive.
Can you even hear my screams?
I know six feet under is too deep to ask,
But could you try to listen?
Can you hear the divorce that didn't happen because of us kids?
Can you hear the bitter resentment in every exchange?
Can you hear your fingers combing through my hair in my dreams? Your lips on my forehead? Your heartbeat underneath my hand?
Can you hear the anger he spits at us everyday?
“I didn't want you two to grow up in a broken home.”
But we have. Just not in the traditional sense.
Can you hear the sound of ***** pouring over ice?
Can you hear the television so loud I have to close my door to think?
Can you hear the mascara stains on every pillow in the house?
Can you hear the distance between each member of this "happy family"?
Can you hear the regret?
Can you hear the bitterness?
Can you hear the frustration?
Can you hear the solitude?
Can you hear it?
Of course not.
I've learned by now that no one hears a silent goodbye.

Words,
Thoughts,
Emotions,
And life
Surrounds me in one.
As I begin to write
It all turn into fun, then as I continue,
It starts to turn into violence, and shoot out like a gun.
Everything is so peaceful,
In other people eyes,
But the stream of words,
Titles
And thoughts keep coming in remind,
That I am a poet.
I get the urge to write.
I’m like a crack addict,
Addicted to writing, staying up all night.
Afraid to stop.
Paranoid that the words will
Stay.
Troubled by my thoughts,
As Ink bleed in repay,
Of redemption and
Sequel  settings
The hard times of one’s life is mine,
Which is not forgetting.
I seem crazy and quite threating to others.
I talk to myself,
Just quiet,
Unexplainable mutters.
Poetry took my heart and ran,
Made it paper thin,
And red ink span,
Grey lead as a tan,
Poisoning my heart, and making it into flying paper
Cranes.
In only minutes,
Seconds,
I am done with a poem,
That is ******* with the ends of my storm.
I am the devoted,
Thoughtless,
Emotionless,
Lifeless,
Poet.



-Marci H.

Is it appropriate,
To tell you I love you.
To tell you,
Just how fast you make my heart race.
To explain,
The feeling of butterflies,
And the tightness in my chest.
May I say,
How perfect it feels
To be wrapped up in your arms.
Or should I keep this,
My little secret.

it comes in the lonely hours of the morning
a suffocating wave of loss that leaves my throat tight
chest constricted
stomach rolling
i didn't think loss could feel physical

hugging my knees doesn't help with the tightness
i guess
but it keeps myself from breaking
it's not as good as the feel of your arms
but this will have to do.