Creeping up the steps of the building,
She holds her breath.
The building stares at her with massive, polished eyes,
Eyes of judgement,
Daring her to enter it's realm of formality,
It's realm of order and conduct.
She holds her breath.
A chill passes through her when she sees the others.
Dressed to impress,
Traveling in packs, like wolves of the wild.
And completely unaware of everything.
They have attended a private performance,
Put on by the people,
They immerse themselves with, surround themselves with.
She holds her breath.
The walls beckon her in, soak her in.
And she blends into them like a chameleon.
Invisible.
She holds her breath.
Traveling soundlessly, with soft footsteps that don't echo along the hallow halls,
Making her way to her destination,
She holds her breath.
The door moans as it opens to reveal what lays behind.
Disappointment, dismay, disillusions,
Dread.
She holds her breath.

Walking along the river bank, a boy found a dress,
Floating in the bleak water.
A colorless bundle of cloth.
In the moon light, he noticed the dress winking back at him.
The beads glistened off the water's reflection.
It looked serene and wholesome, like the sun rising on a cold winter's morning.
The ribbons acted as arms, waving hello.
The garment's creases and folds, revealed a silhouette.
All around, the noise came to a stand still.
The river's touch, made the dress move, twirl,
Dance.
He wanted to reach out and touch it, hold it.
He wanted to dance with it.
To feel the cloth melt at his finger tips.
As he extended his hand to grab the floating mystery,
He fell in.
Devoured by the unforgiving river.
Only a few minutes passed but it seemed like eternity.
Then, drifting upwards from the haunting water,
A pair of faded jeans and a muddy shirt.
They moved as one gliding over to the pallid dress.
A sleeve reached out and met a milk-white waist line.
And guided the colorless dress to the middle of the engaging river,
To dance under the moon light.

There are days,
Where I wish I could run away.
Away from that face.
What I would give to never see it again.

There are days,
Where I try to please her.
Her testy personality stands in the way of that.
What I would give to stay on her good side.

If she had a good side.

It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.

It was in the park.
When I saw the scarf whirling in the wind,
The elegance in its movement was inspiring,
When the sun hit the cloth,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no scarf to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a pair of mittens sitting on a bench.
Unlike the scarf, the mittens were rooted to the bench on which they lay.
A light coat of ice encased the mittens,
When the sun hit just right,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no mittens to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a jacket hanging in a tree.
It looked as if a body still haunted it, because it waved furiously at me,
Probably hoping I could help it down.
The jacket gave up waving to me when it realized there was no way I was going to be its savior, but
When the sun hit the jacket,
It twinkled under it's rays.
I continued my stroll in the brisk winter air,
Wondering about the poor soul with no jacket to keep warm.
It was then - when that thought crossed my mind - I saw a blanket, with a man and women upon it.
And when the sun hit the eyes of the man,
They twinkled under it's rays.
And I realized, there was no poor soul without material to keep him warm,
There was a lucky soul, with a human being to keep him warm.

I'm just so sick, and tired, and down right exhausted.
Every time I manage to stand up tall and be proud of myself again,
And know you're proud that I'm your daughter.
I trip, and I'm falling, falling down again,
Or you shove me, push me down.
And I'm too tired to even get up.
I think I'll just lay here for a while.

Waiting like a fool.
Making a wish on a star.
Wishing for what was.

My mind goes blank,
Blank like the white piece of paper you write on,
On it, it says these words,
Words that tell a story of a boy and a girl,
A girl who's so confused she doesn't want to lose,
Lose out, miss out, she just wants to get to get out,
Out onto the field of the unimaginable.
Unimaginable things can happen when you put your mind to it,
It can lead you to brand new possibilities and brand new places.
Places you never thought you could go or would go,
Go where everyone knows you and you know everyone,
Everyones eyes will be watching you,
Watching you trip, fall and get back up again,
Up again because you want to be stronger, you want to be better,
Better then the best because frankly, you're just not like the rest.
The rest who play their games of shame,
Shame on them for telling her that she was nothing,
That she was nothing.
Nothing will ever change the way I feel about them, the way I feel about you.
You think I didn't notice you in the background, standing still like a statue,
But even statues have more purpose than you.

It slinks across the emerald turf early in the morning,
Silently, fluidly.
Barely visible like a gust of wind.
The sky grows dark,
and fills the infinite horizon with dread.
As tears fall from the heavens,
They hit the hard surfaces of the cold, bitter stones.
They are deathly pale and as bloodless as a coma patient.
The stones crumble underneath the weight of a woman.
Fog rolls in,
Surrounding it's oblivious victim.
Empty eyes look around feeling the sense of the approaching omen.
Suffocating in the smoke,
She draws one final breath.
And in the exhale,
A stream of gray slithers out of her soulless body.

I never understood why people call others a "goodie goodie" when they are helping someone out.
I thought people preached, and wished for there to be more "good people" out there in this world.

News flash.

There are "good people" in this world.

They just get teased, mocked and even picked on by jealous people for their actions.
They are seen as "*** kissers" , only doing "something good" to one up someone else.
Seen as self-centered people who only do what they think is best for them.

So the good deeds, the selfless acts, fade away.


Yet they are still called upon, only a few answer.

When the aqua blue fades into a bubble gum pink,
They make a satin violet that dazzles the evening sky.
And as the sun goes down, it kisses the clouds,
Leaving a trace of amber lipstick around its edges.
The sun melts into the horizon, spilling it's liquid gold everywhere.
It scrambles to pick up the beautiful mess it's created.
But it knows time is running out,
Before it is invaded with the purest black.
And like a curtain that has been drawn one to many,
Light shows through the tattered cloth,
Shining.

There's a girl I know who likes to stand on the side of the road.
Doesn't flinch when a semi-truck drives by, doesn't do a dance when she's spooked by a horn.
She just stands and watches the cars blur by her eyes,
She marvels that in one moment, that blue Ford truck, with shovels and rakes and a black lab in the back were in her life for a moment.
But within the next, they were gone.
She never knew if she was going to see that Ford again.
But before she can even let the loss of never seeing the blue Ford sink in,
A rusty, purple mini-van comes barreling down the road to introduce its self.

Do me a favor.
Tell me you're a keeper,
I won't let go.

But if you're not,
That's okay. Just be aware,
My grip will tighten.

Because regardless
If you're a keeper or,
not. I still love you.

He seems obvious to the note passing,
To the eyes spying and the paper ***** flying.
He sits at his desk with a meek expression upon his face,
Not quite staring into space, but a place.
I can tell by this clean features and his put-together attire,
That he acquires to be in a position higher with such desire.
That he's dreaming of a place that doesn't require baby-sitting hormonally deranged teenagers,
It's a place where maybe he's a manager or somewhere fighting potential danger,
The bell rings above his head which shakes him back to the present time,
He adjusts his jacket and looks around like he committed a crime, then he smiles goodbye to his students like they were piles of grime.
I creep up to his desk and tell him,
It's not that grim, remember, the glass is full to the brim.

The eyes belonged to the judge,
Though they belonged to him, they acted on their own,
While the judge listen to the prosecutor ramble on about the crime committed,
The eyes studied the man in the orange jumpsuit sitting before them.
Noting that orange was not his color at all,
Yes, he would look better in a jade or soft blue jumpsuit.
The man was nervous. Clearly.
The eyes could see his right foot bouncing on its ball in a swift motion.
Observing it was a steady one, beating with his heart, and when his heart quickened,
So did the bouncing.
The eyes looked to his hair, matted and shining,
Definitely not gel. He must be sweating.
Drifting to the arms, since the sleeves were rolled to the elbow, tattoos covered his left arm.
Prison tattoos, he must be right handed then. And this isn’t his first rodeo.
While studying the man, the eyes are trying to decide whether this man is guilty.
Or not.
At that moment the jury broke the eyes aloofness with the judge and they returned to him.
An acclamation echoed of the court walls.
Guilty.
The jury had spoken.

The familiar door swings open at my touch,
Greeting me with the aromas I’ve come to love.
Surveying the room I find the old man in his corner,
Muttering under his breath about something in the paper.
His face creases to form an unpleasant look, one that's been there before.
The gruff hand reaches out to the liquid gold on his right, and he brings it to his thirst quenching Lips.
The lines fade, but only slightly.
I recede further into the cafe until an intruding fragrance invades my lungs,
Suffocating, I back up as the waitress blows by me,
And I see the trail of fumes chasing after her.
She shuttles over to the table with a young couple,
If they couldn't make it anymore obvious.
Their hands are laced together in a peculiar pattern,
And their eyes only see each others - typical.
Nervous laughter and smiles pass between them as a bottle would be passed about,
Red rushes to the cheeks when a compliment slips out on "accident."
I tear my eyes away, I can't handle young love today,
So I make my way to my table,
My old, coffee stained, uneven legged table in the corner.
From here I can see the business man sitting at the closest table to the door.
I know he's a business man not from his sharp suit and brief case,
but from the way he keeps checking his watch.
Checking it like he has someplace to be, someone to met, like the time can't possibly be right.
And before I can make another assumption of the man,
The store spits him out.
Leaving behind an empty chair, a paper unopened and steam fleeing from a cup.

The warmth surges through my body as the water runs down,
Down, down, down it drips.
Through my ***** blonde hair that extends to my sun kissed stomach.
To my thighs,
And lastly to my toes painted in pink.
The water beats from the shower cap with the power people crave for,
Desire for.
I like to play a game, with the water.
I turn the nosel to the hottest it will go,
Then simply stand under it.
I can feel my chest burning,
My body melting under the scalding water.
Before I evaporate completely under the shower cap, I turn the nosel to the coldest it will go.
My breath is taken instantly, my favorite part.
Slowly my head becomes numb.
The numbness travels down to my frozen cheeks,
My burnt shoulders,
My growing *******,
My narrow hips,
My brawny legs,
My pink toes.
And this is when I know I am alive.
So I turn off the water,
And know I won the game.

How do you know?

Where the lovers go?

Do they run, towards the setting sun?

Or secretly meet where the water kisses their feet?

Or perhaps bathe in the light, feeling more than alright.

Where ever the lovers may be, I hope they get a chance to come get me.

.                                      

                        ­                 How is it that                            when you need
                                   something - anything -           from me, I run franticly
                              to your side to aid your desires...But when I just ask for a
                               little compassion, a little distraction, a little satisfaction.
                                You look right through my pleading eyes to the person
                                    behind me and seductively say, "Hey, could you do
                                        me a favor?" And that's when I melt inside. I feel
                                          misused, abused and yet I can't wait until I'm
                                               reused. Because I believe that next time,
                                                    will be the last time, the final time
                                                          when you realize that I might
                                                           ­  not come running. Instead
                                                         ­        I'll be waiting for you
                                                             ­       to miss me by your
                                                            ­           side - like I miss
                                                            ­               being there.
                                                          ­                   *Someday

Little footprints
Never to be seen again,
Down the alley way.

If I tried to write about you, but only managed a sentence or two,
Would you say I was trying to hard?  
Or not trying enough?
It’s not my fault I can’t put you into words.
And you, you just use an inordinate amount of beautiful words.
It’s insensitive of you really,
Because when you describe me in that way you do,
I’m left breathless and have lost all of the glorious words for your ears to hear.

You're the reason why a smile appears
                       on my face
                                     when I should really be sleeping.

The reason why my laugh
                           echoes across
                                    this building we call home.

You're the reason why I am
                     caught dreaming
                              when I am suppose to be working.

The reason why I feel
                    perfectly safe
                               falling in love with you.

There is no doubt that his hands have traveled before,
They're experienced explores.
Over her gentle skin he cruised slowly back and forth,
To the nook of her neck,
Down,
To the warm welcoming crevasse between her thighs.
His hands gradually walked over to her backside where his hands simply rested,
Taking in the view.
Her body was the map,
And his hands were those of a skilled cartographers who desperately needed to know every inch,
Every mile between her poorly painted pink toes,
To her sun streaked gold hair.
And so the experienced explorers wandered,
Roamed,
Strolled over the many dips and curves and bends and twists that she held.
When his hands came to her wrist,
He stopped momentarily to admire the slenderness.
When his hands ventured to her shoulders,
He felt the muscles that lay under the polished skin.
When his hands finally made their way to her legs,
He was aware of how sturdy and stocky they were built.
With every brush,
Graze,
And glide of his hands,
She couldn't help but think,
There is no doubt that his hands have traveled before,
They're experienced explores.

When I look outside,
                                                     at the freshly mowed grass,

                                                         ­                                      I think it's a pity....................


no one walks on it barefooted.

It's nights like these,
Where I wish you were here to hear my thoughts,
     Instead
                   Of
                        These
                                   Blank
                                              Pages.

How lucky of the
Fork to have touched his lips,
I wish it was me.

Enough.


I can't listen any more to your idiotic questions.

SO many times.

So many times I have waited, and waited......and waited for you.

Waited for you to come home,
               For you to pick me up,
                    For you to kiss me,
                         For you to hold me,
                              For you to be next to me,
                                   For you to love me,

I don't want to be waiting forever.

I just wish he didn't come to school with scars.
Or bruises that are a much deeper purple than my dress,
If I could, I would put his parents behind bars.
But ultimately that would make him stress.

Because he loves them, after all.
They're his parents and they care for him right?
Even if the hits are hard enough to make him bawl,
The hits will stop if he doesn't put up a fight.

He's a trooper that's for sure,
Sharing his smile to all in his path.
When I'm having a bad day that smile is my cure.
I'm just sorry he has to suffer his parents wrath.