My life, then, hung like a
sun-yellow mobile that spun
in the heat as I flowed from
one end of summer to the other.
The songs on the radio were
my island.  My life as a girl
in the years before fences
appears in memory slides,
dressed in the beaches of  
youth.

I grew from seeds to roses in
the ground of my childhood
summers.  In the calendar of
my life as a young girl
every date prefigured you.
Day by day, in the years of
growing I bought, with the
barter of my soul, all the
heat and all the music.

Battened by the times before
you, strengthened by long
storms, hot suns, cold winds,
this, then is what I offer
you:  deep beaches, thornworn
roses, summers that flow
from one end of your life
to the other.

Caroline Shank

violins play in the wind in the trees
and the bats sing while eating oranges
i lay still and listen
eyes closed
it's hot
and cold
but i won't move because if i do
i have to wake up
eyes closed






.....

You can always tell a self destructive writer
By their poetry

Because sometimes they are redundant
And other times they are expressing pain

But they always tell a story of being hurt
And locked into their own head

But this my dear, is why they write
Because the person in their head is trying to get out

Self destructive writers
Are usually dark

But when they are light
They tell you how perfect you are

So that you don't do the same thing
That they did to themselves

Self destructive writers
Don't want you to make their scars
On your arms

My head broke
And all the pieces fell
Like glass hopes

Shattered into a million
Shards of slashed throats

I layed there on the asphalt

A broken man
Lost in translation

Found in the laughs joke

My head broke
After I fell off the tightrope
I lost my balance
And the challenge
That life wrote

Pieces of me
Scattered all over
While my thoughts bled
Into a puddle

My head broke
Open

Hope spilled out
And I lost everything
My mind controlled
When

I broke my head