Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov

Tuesday, July 12, 2005


I am up tonight emotions reeling.
It was my birthday yesterday, 36 years old. 36 years alive.
Three years of parents, mom and dad, 10 years of multiple dads, moms, ad totally confusion, abandonment, aching for my real father. ...Wild times of insanity with my mom, and an emotional roller coaster ride with my grandmother and her dilemas.
...Lots of moving around, losing people , starting over, and culture shock.
In those first years I learned German, I also realized that I was my mom and my mom's mom, and everyone's anchor.
When they wanted me to be, of course.
Then at 16, My 20 years of drug addition, self hate, torture and, blind running began. Frankly it lasted until about 10 months ago.
My mother died two years ago.
Most of the last two years is so terrifying that my mind can hardly wrap itself around it all.
Most importantly those times provided me the final shove toward my need for reality.
...A reality I have been avoiding for the last 33 years.
I have come to realize, the insanity which filled many years,
came from depths of my own being.
The objects of my saddness and fear, suddenly dissipated into nothingness,
while a need for truth and reality has taken its place.
I realize only now, my happiness, and I matter.
I know now, only I possess the power it takes to  either "make or break" me.
...No one and nothing else has ever held that over me. ...no man, woman, drug, attitude, nothing.
There is, and will never be any way of ME escaping me.
...Not being beaten, or abandoned...
...Not an overdose, not emotional ****, not physical ****, nothing.
None of this could ever provide that escape.
For I know, now, there is no escaping ME.
Oh the price I've paid for this realization:
In the end, only I will be standing in front of my own judgement.
I , alone, will be the target of my  anger, hurt , fear, and guilt, if I do not decide this life is worth being present for.
I have finally decided to own those years.
...Resolved, that by my actions, alone, I either made my life a happy one worth wanting to share, or one so miserible all I could see to do was end it all.  
I can no longer blame my failure on  "the guy" I was with, nor  can I blame my mother for her selfish, hurtful, and neglectful way.
It was never some other person's herion addiction. Nor was it someone's fist in my face, that, ultimately brought me down onto the floor.
... My misguided, distorted, sense of unimportance, is what took me down.
...The pain, devastation, and  lack of self worth,  provided by a childhood filled, mostly, with disappointments, and abandonment, and confusion.
From this, I bore my defect.
...My malignant tumour of self destruction.


I have since learned I only need myself to make this life a good one.
...I shall love and nourish, and be kind to myself.
I will love me first.
Only i can live this life I've been given. Only i can walk my path.
The choice is now mine, alone.  
I boldly choose laughter and sunshine.
Though I dare not forget the gloom and sorrow of years past.
The choice has been  mine from the beginning.  
I will, starting now, live for my dreams and for my well being.
Although has taken many years to understand...
THIS little girl has found her voice.  
It is a most important, intelligent, worthy, and bold voice to boot!
I have also come to believe that loving another should never lead to neglect or abuse of any kind.
And that loving someone doesn't mean tossing one's own good judgment aside, while living  in someone else's misery with, or even for them.
No one will ever love me for neglecting myself.
This behavior only leads to disrespect, and further neglect from them, as well as self hatred and loathing, from me.
One of the most ridiculous thoughts I  remember having was 17yrs old.  My boyfriend, and I  had been living for the past year in Manhattan, ater leaving Atlanta to make a fresh start away from his herion addiction. It was like jumping from the frying pan into the fire! He hadn't stopped using. He had actually gotten much more out of control.  While Looking in the mirror after my nightly shower after one evening, I thought about the way he had started looking old and worn and sickly looking. That is when it came to me! A genius idea! ...At least that is what i thought at the time!
I decided the only way I could get him to quit using drugs, and me, was to BECOME him.
And that I did!
I became a selfless him.
He used me up, and my heart still mourns him.  
...It still mourns ME, for that matter.

Disillusion and Disappointments come easy in life.
But being real and heathly come just as easily.
If only  you can stop running blind for a moment.
Then recognize the difference between the two, that is.
It was incredibly easy to set myself up for disaster and disappointments.
But I have found, it takes guts to care enough about myself to say; "Enough is enough!"
Even now, I catch myself trying to walk on the razor's sharp edge of reason and choice.

I could wake up tomorrow and decide I'll take the "easy" way.
Then again, I could to take the "real" road. THe road to freedom of *******.

I  have decided, at this old age of 36 years, I am not willing to, and will not repeat those miserable years for anyone ever again.

...My road to happiness has been paved with fear, disillusion, disappointment, and heartache.
I will walk the rest of my road with love for myself and for others!
Love and Light!
So Ham!

posted by romy geissler at 7/12/2005 02:42:00 AM

Poetry
or...
just writing in general,
a diary if need be
makes a person a much better person.
in the days i stopped typing blank words into little box's
days where i just didn't say whats on my mind,
i found i missed it.
i felt something was different,
So  i decided to get back online
type these blank thoughts
empty words,
for all to see.

I once saw threw the stars pools of serendipitous thoughts.
Melding feelings over-constructively by manifesting stains.
It's too wet,
Leaking unimportance. They aren't colored enough; silly to forget the dyes.
Standing too long, there's a need to stretch.
Stretch back lights, free twinkling corosions away.
I was looking too hard.

Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.

Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.

We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.

We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.

These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.

The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.

He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.

So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.

Spring. Same plants, same order.
Monday morning, open for business.
Tractor-trailers, day care centers.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out.

To tonight’s town meeting I will go unaware and foolish.
It’s delicious, the unimportance of my feelings.
Even our particular war was small.
Europe had one last a century.

Hubble photos of events 13 billion years ago
Do not put me in mind of the species’ insignificance.
Just the opposite having witnessed the universe’s birth.
But birth from what preceding state? God again rears his hoary head.

They say one must let go and will let go,
God will decide what tragedy you need.
Not every seed becomes a flower,
Not every branch breaks out like a prosthetic trombone.

While the ancient Romans wrote of love
The ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.

The November moth's the fall cankerworm--Alsophilia pometaria--
Slender-bodied, beige, beginning life as the well known inchworm.
In our war more children may have died than would have had
      the tyrant lived in fear and awe.
We can never know because we conquered.

I look out the window
Into the yard
I see a fluffy Junco
Sitting comfortably on the fence

I see him look around
Then fly over to the feeders
I watch as he gets some seeds
Then goes back to the fence
He puffs back up
And then out of nowhere
A baby Junco
Crookedly and excited
Flies in
Sits next to his dad
And his dad feeds him
And then his dad is off again
To get more food
For his baby

Over the weeks
I watch the Goldfinches,
The Grosbeaks, the Finches,
The Doves, and
The Sparrows.
All gathering on the fence
With their families
To eat
And I am reminded
Of my family
Gathering around the dinner table
Everynight
Chattering, coming and going
But then I think
That those birds must have it far easier
Than we do
All they worry about is surviving
While we have discussions on
Politics, school, wars
Gossip, rumors, things of unimportance

That's when I think back
To my childhood dream
“I want to be a bird when I grow up”
Because they are worry free
Unlike me

"What's the matter dear?"
Psh... They say it as if they actually care.

Everything.

Nothing.

I have no ******* clue what is actually wrong with me.

What is so wrong with me that I am squeezing my lungs with my dirt covered hands just so I have trouble breathing, just so.. perhaps... I suffocate myself...

What is so wrong with me that I've had to cry so often my tears have turned to sand and they begin to erode my flesh?
I've sobbed so often lately that the features of my bare skull are now where my pretty face should be.

I'm such a **** up.

I swear they told me that the minute I was born. You would figure it was my name.

Hello my name is: **** Up.

Nice to meet you. I hope we can be great frie--- oh great.
I've done it again.

I said the wrong thing.
I held out the wrong hand for the handshake.
I'm too ugly for them to talk to.
I'm too skinny.
It's the pimples again isn't it?
They weren't this bad yesterday I promise I just pick
Pick... Pick... Too much.
I'm s-sorry I k-keep st-stuttering its j-just that you're s-so... pretty.  Oh y-you have to g-go? O-okay...

The abandonment issues never really go away.

It gets harder and harder to talk to people. Even in your dreams you try to scream to get some recognition for yourself but every word comes out silent.

Crowds are your worst enemy. You get lost as they swarm towards you and your body suddenly feels tight. Your stomach flips upside down and you're not breathing steady.

And then... Oh! There's that suffocation you wanted earlier. Is it everything you expected? Breathe it all in! Oh wait... You can't. Hahaha!

You can't speak, and when you do you st-stutter again and you speak so quietly that it doesn't even matter anyway.

"I exist." You whisper.

No one heard you, you know.
Instead their voices bounce off each other and you feel light headed as that once wonderful cranium fills with the clamor of the incredibly untalented voice-drummers you unwillingly surround yourself with.

My entire body trembles with anxious defeat.


Such a **** up.
You can't even get him to talk to you again let alone love you, you miserable *******. You're going to be alone forever, you know.

And your own friends!... They're out doing drugs and you always believe them when they say they're going to quit. Jokes on you. This will traumatize you for the rest of your pointless life, especially when you know you could have done something.

You can't even take care of yourself, what makes you think you deserve those wonderful twins you hold so closely to your heart? You should have listened to your father when he said you'd be a terrible mother. He was right. You're horrid.

Sticks and stones WILL break my bones, but words will indeed **** me.

Hello, my name is: ****** Up

Welcome to the town of Unimportance.
Population: Me

A paper lantern,
Crafted by the small hands
Of a girl with lime green nails
And flecks of dried glue peeling at her fingers.

It sits in visceral stillness,
Made of bleached white paper
Usually reserved for the tedious documents
Chronicling this-and-that,
The unimportance of the adult world.

There is a smell of felt tips
To replace the lost one of chalk
That used to settle so stubbornly in the air
And reside powder-blue in the lungs.

We are in the proximity of Christmas now,
Nothing but a daze away.
And festivities are tangible in the city streets
As those shops and stalls display their colours
And sounds,
In the mating ritual of buy-and-sell,
Make-and-take.

The classrooms are empty,
The corridors somewhat cavernous.
Empty coat pegs tell the stories
That cannot be heard in the voices of the children
Still echoing against the walls.

The buzz of Santa Claus is permissible
For just another year.
After that, magic must be shelved
And brought out only for the first dust of snow,
A meteor shower,
Or in a generous two-for-one discount.

But for now the children go home for Christmas
And the paper lantern will sit
Constant.

-
- Moments. Tiny moments. Big moments. Unexpected moments. I've-been-waiting-my-whole-life-for-this moments.
- Seeing the world through the cracks in its mask; directly in its eyes (or where the holes should be at least).
- Accepting the all-round unimportance of humanity to the world but giving the world to humanity. There is no definition of who or what a good person is. So hold positive qualities (like love, honesty, rebelliousness, compassion, affection) in your palms and give your true self to the world. Tell yourself you are good. In turn, you then will be.
- Treat the Earth nicely. You have a short stay and after all, you're just part of an energy system. Be nice to Pluto too. God forbid, it could use it.

sleep deprivation:
I wrap a blanket of the stuff
around me
and drink another round of
coffee.

no, that's a lie. I'm not drinking
coffee. I'm drinking--
get this--
sorrow and you know what?
black.

sleep deprivation:
is it too much to say that I'm
waiting for you to call and
answer that heavy question
I'd asked two days ago.

why do you love me?

no, that's not a lie. I really did
ask him that.
don't believe me?

well, he's _5 and I'm not
seventeen years enough to get
anything out of the way he
feels for me.

sleep deprivation:
enough to hallucinate circles
and twiddley-lumps on strangers.

suffice to say I'm waiting on the
insignificance of the moment,
the unimportance of the lifetime.

like the lifetime of a star on the other
side of the universe:
she burned herself out and is now just

a ten cent ****** with a smoker's cough.

sleep deprivation:



                                         ha, circles.