The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am,
then I can change.*
Carl Rogers


my hands can be so prosaic
uninterrupted in the mechanism of gestures
mindless, blinded, tired
of polishing the edge of the world

your hands and their delicate shiver
are used to behaving
trying to learn how to grasp the meaning,
the contours of the void in daylight
or why haters hate
(was it your fault or theirs?)

you are an unfinished landscape
of breaking points and hopeless moans,
oases of quietness,  turning points and
electrical paths, buds of mystery
I know nothing about

still, there’s something  teasing
written in between
such is coherence:  a paradox
-two interlocking  unwittingly-
irrational at one level
imaginatively reasonable at another
-reality is framed by negotiation with a god of silence-
two singularities conversing,
filling the air with space  
: it is me⁢ is you
Like when you erase me perfectly
with a blink of an eye
tired or cynical
with yourself,
or when I crush you
like a manic avalanche in
midsummer day

-there is some madness in between-

after all
shame and shamelessness
cannot be understood
in binary codes
while humility and pride
are two faces of the same coin

it’s been written  since day one
this matching choreography of turmoil inside
or just the pursued birth pains of self
-switch, twist, push, turn,
run, hide, split,
break, slip, cut
repeat, repeat, repeat –
the vertigo of life
rhyming imaginary possibilities
new gestures,
new proportions of light
and darkness
in the power of my hands
in the clarity of your voice

we approximate the truth of our last breath
grow old in stories within stories within the story
we tell ourselves to survive the crack of dawn

and so it goes:
the hero decrypting sunset
deepens the story
looking for
some freedom
to be

and I cannot look at you
without
the sonorous light
bearing tenderness
within

I set you free
in my blood
without knowing
if you stay
for today

it seems like time is tearing us
apart

i am reaching out to you from a
different dimension, from ten years from
now, or two years ago
and i look like nothing but a ghost

be quiet, and maybe
you will
hear me

Broken bones, cracked wood, bullet holes
concrete jungle, trashed hoods
events parted souls.
New generation,
burned eyes, pictures burned within
the frame of mind.
Flicker like flames, burning bright
like daytime. Behaviour leaving
vague signs..smokesignals.
Adding oil, fake signs
attracted like a moth to the flame
the pyromaniac saves time.
set-up, stamp time
written the punchline
**** it, it's lunchtime
This One Ate Seven Poets
Get burned lines
like the horizon touching the *sunrise

i step out
and the rain greets me like a blessing
bestowed by some great silence
i speak to each sunday
and i take this as an answer
because why the hell not

i am suddenly sure i have left something behind
but no, my bag is there
notebooks tucked under my arm
ipod clutched in one hand
phone safe inside my jacket
consorting with my keys
(proof I've got somewhere to go)
travel mug empty, wallet full
of receipts and loyalty cards

finally, pricked by the bent arm of a button
i give up, knowing it's all in my head
and i have everything i need to survive today

still, i feel like something's missing

my right hand clings to my scarf
fingers tight, knuckles white
as if to say
"give me something to hold onto"
and the rain that stings my face reminds me

i have everything i need to survive today
except you

I could say that it is our generation but bitterness has always been grandfathered in and we've become so frightened of what is real that we are more content opening up to a lions den to be devoured. Perception or deception? I'm not so sure the lines are still in existence.

(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro

watch the happiness drain from the tip of my head
to my eyes
to my toes
watch it pool around the bottoms of my calloused barefeet
on the cold, ugly brown tile of the dorm bathroom.

the problem with validity is that in order to be of value there must be something below you that is worthless
and many times the skulls of wide-eyed quiet girls will do
to rest your high-heeled tennis shoes on
baton in hand
leading the slaughter ever forward.

inadequacy is a monster that plants itself in the stomach
and grows out of the mouth at an alarming rate
strangling the trembling buds around you...

i would feel better if you knew me before you perpetuated your indelible lack of self-love
i would feel better if there were a reason to crush my bones and knead them into the whitewashed cement of these dorm room walls
built upon the bodies of other quiet girls
seeking solace from the raging personalities
that make up for their raging
inadequacies -

yes,
i play video games.
and i have a decorative knife
that i was not able to hang up
because sticky tac only goes so far.
yes, i am quiet
no, i do not partake in your gossip
or your hate speech
but do not pin me to the wall like the latest bug collection conquest
like you have defeated me

i have a flower growing on my desk that could defeat all of you
if it stooped to your level
beauty is the sharpest sword.

futile, feeble, fictious

fastidious, frugal, finicky

fidelity, faith, firmness

fragile, fleeting, frail,

thoughts have
a way of being
your only friend
when no one else
is there to hear
you talk. they're
the kind of friend
who criticizes your
choices, even if they
may be the right ones,
and the ones who tear
apart all shreds of
self confidence you
once had. in the end,
you think your thoughts
are a good friend, but in
reality, they're you biggest
enemy.