We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.

Pen ink gliding across paper
Yellowed by the sun for ages
From my fingertips bubble words
I do not yet understand
But they come from the innermost depths
Of my soul, never to be voiced

My words never wished to be voiced
Created to live on the paper
Found only in the hidden depths
Of my notebooks on shelves for ages
No one could understand
All my thoughts strung into words

My head is so full of words
That know not how to be adequately voiced
Themselves they do not understand
As flimsy and fragile as paper
Building up for what seems like ages
Into the sea of confusion they sink to the depths

How deep are my soul's depths
It's distance cannot be put into words
The extent of my thoughts goes on for ages
For ages they'll decline to be voiced
And one day I'll crumple them up like paper
Until they're too wrinkled to understand

I do not want others to understand
My thoughts, that I hide in the depths
Of my pen kept away from paper
I refuse to make words
That fear being voiced
To people of all genders and ages

I wish not to be remembered for ages
Most will not understand
My opinions seek not to be voiced
Before my soul implodes into its own depths
Devoid of all thoughts, feelings, & words
As blank as a white sheet of paper

For ages I'll stay in the depths
Of what I don't understand, the words
never voiced, smeared in ink on yellow paper.

The girl with the paper heart
Stood upon the hill and thought
"If I stand tall from up real high,
The wind will take me to the sky!"
She waited there for just a breeze
To whisper, lift her to the trees
And blow it did, a hefty whooooosh!
That sent her rolling into a bush

But up she stood and to the hill
With just a scrape left from the spill
She studied the branches softly sway
And waited for a breeze her way
And fast it came, a strength so grand
She swirled up high and crashed to land
Bent and twisted, swaying to a stance
She thought of taking one more chance

She approached the hill and climbed the *****
And once a top she laid her hope
And closer, near she heard the whistle
She let it go her heart without dismissal
Then up she flew, and down she swayed,
Before she was swallowed by the Bay

To the girl with the paper heart,
The love you crave was false from start
The wind alone can not be trusted
To take you to the love you lusted

Don't give it all away so fast
You'll find that kind of love can't last
You'll learn in time, the complex art
Of building up a stronger heart
One that doesn't scrape or twist
Or drown into a deep abyss

The heart you want will have a beat,
And keep you dancing on your feet
So take that paper heart at last
And keep it as a lesson passed

Notice a regimented city full of ants
Where shoulders rub without a glance
And never do bowed heads look up
To notice men with trembling cups
To see the sky, and admit its worth
Embrace our helplessness from birth
Invisible chains brace personal spaces
To widen the gaps from race to races

Moving back and forth, Up and down
We scour the maze for gains to be found
Blinders on, we tunnel our way
Never stop to talk, it creates delay
The troubles of others are theirs alone
Emotions cause chaos, changes faces to stone
Be the best for yourself, climb to the top
And stomp on the heads of the weak who have stopped

But who will be there when your limbs give out?
When age leaves you breathless, unable to shout
When illness takes over and you can't quite recall
What it was that you climbed for, was it important at all?
When the money and materials you collected so dear
Gather dust on a shelf without one which to share
All your life you have strived to reach top the hill
And you finally get there, just to feel unfulfilled

Take a look around now and notice this place
Take the time to stop and study each face
Always keep your dreams and aspirations afloat
But let others in and let love be your boat
Empathize with others, try and feel what they felt
You never quite know the cards they've been dealt
The key to success is to take notice of grace
We are not working ants, we are the human race

I'm scared that no one takes me seriously
That everything I say is labeled "dumb"
That they laugh when my back is turned
That I'm secretly "the joke".

I wonder if the people who get talked about
Know and don't give a sh*t,
Or are completely oblivious to it.

If it were me,
If I were the **** of those jokes,
I would crack
And crumble into shards.
And I surely would not make it out alive.

                            -m.m.

The mannequin faceless,
Clothed in gold
With hands pandering svelte,
Remains an admired inanimate,
Albeit, atop whispers to a girl,
A 4-foot flower 3-feet my right,
Fretting and stumped;
Extrinsic a label – “undesirable.”

The mannequin faceless,
Her and hollow –
A towering nose above, stands
Opaque ivory, scarred come
Synonymous eyes with a symmetrical
Soul, assumed plastic perfection
And more importantly,
Soon to be sale.

The mannequin faceless
Convinced her new friend,
Her lesser, lopsided,
And natural not-so counterpart
To consume,
“Eat me, “eat me,” “eat it all,”
And then, “binge some more.”

The mannequin faceless
SCREAMS,
“BUY!”  Amongst the other torments –
Born both fingers that can’t move and
The thumbs that shuffle, “One’s,”
To the girl that was never,
“Good enough;” so shared the
Tabloid’s mouth.

The mannequin faceless demands
And DEMANDS nothing less than to
Buy, starve, suffer and sacrifice
So that every “broken body,”
May embody polymer, and for a price,
A not so fair trade whilst
Considering old man gold,
The curator of conundrum
And the plastic he’s created.

She lives in a world of lies and shattered pieces
Constantly telling herself that everything will work out
That it will be alright if she can just hold on
When she knows in her broken little soul
That the only thing that will mend is the hearts of those around her

Truly she knows how deadly her mind is to herself
The fake, comforting, band-aid thoughts that fill her with dread
Taking over when she's alone and crying
Those white lies that she almost believed in
The one she almost trusted, stabbing her in the back

The delicate rose inside of her withering away with dehydration
Life being ****** out, replaced by a poison of the worst kind
Doubts filling her head, clouding her judgement
Forcing her to do unforgivable things that she'll never forget
The thorn in her side pushing her again and again

They say you need to bleed to know you're alive
And although she has bled, she's still not sure
Wishing it was all just a nightmare, a lie of a dream
Again with the lies, she'll never get away
She runs and runs but they always follow her

All around her she sees the broken pieces of herself
Reflected back at her sobbing figure through cracked mirrors
Lighting bouncing off and hiding away
Hiding from the girl who sealed her own fate
The girl who knew what she was getting into but couldn't stop

The girl who is me
--

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

Who are we really?

We're all human beings on the outside, covered in flesh and filled with blood

But beyond that,

                                       Who are we really?

Are we good?
What is good?

Are we bad?
What is bad?

We're living, but are we actually a l i v e ?
What does alive mean, actually?

We're all breathing,
But what does that mean?

Deep down, inside
                                             Who are we really?