and they looked at each other and
yes it was a look of love but
it was also more because it was like
they saw through each other to
the bottom of their soul and
found that there was
family there they looked
at each other like
they were their hope and
their strength and
heart and mind and
everything in between like
they prayed every night that
death would claim them first so
it was not simply love and
friendship it had to be
something else and
i can't quite put my
finger on it

the cynic in me wants to brush it off but
i'd never seen anything like it before

he asked to read my poetry
and i had to tell him no
and when he wondered why
i had to reply
you've undressed my body
but poetry is my naked soul

i do not kiss you in my dreams
i do not feel the heat of your breath
nor smell the honeyed perfume of your sheets
nor taste the bitter salt of your skin

i do not dream of falling asleep in your arms
tracing the silhouette of your body with my fingertips
and i do not feel the of the burning of your palms
nor hear the sound of your breathy sighs
nor savor the smoky baritone of your laughter
nor drink in the lavender of your warmth

i do not dream of this
i do not dream at all

there is a biting chill in the air
today
that's snuck into bed with me
ruffled my hair and
wrapped around my wrist
caressed the hollow of my throat
it is not unkind to me
no it is not a storm
it's just a slight crack in the window
and it says to me
just lie with me
let me weigh down your soul
the world will wait

and so i stay
and my soul is weighed down
but biting wind is a bitter lover
and on the third promise
it lied
the world did not wait for me
and so i am left behind

perhaps that is all for the better.

there was once a man
with a pocket full of rainbows
and some were sharp
and some were warm
and some were in between
but they were all beautiful
and the man would pull them out
one at a time
and feel their reflection in his chest
and he would know he was alive

but one day he reached into his pocket
and found that a color was gone
but he had so many more colors
so he thought nothing more of it
and felt the reflection of his almost full rainbow in his chest

yet more and more colors went missing
and his rainbow got smaller
and thinner
and its reflection was not so bright as it once was
and one day he reached into his pocket
and all that was left was blue
and his chest felt hollow
for without the other colors in the rainbow
the reflection of blue was nothing more than grey mist

but blue was all the man had
so he held it tighter to his chest
and decided to never return it to his pocket
out of fear that he might loose the only color he had left

so the mist surrounded him
and dyed his skin grey
and turned his eyes into cold diamonds
and fashioned his feet into stone
and the man was afraid
afraid to let go of his blue
and discover
that it was the only thing left
anchoring him to the earth.

once upon a time
in a land far away
there was a girl
who wished upon a star
who fell through a book
who dove to the bottom of the sea
who touched the moon
who flew among the dragons
who called down the thunder
and lightning
and wind
who held up the sun

who had a life full of beginnings and middles
and a chapter in between the two
and never seemed
to have her
story
end


but what becomes of a full life if it has no ending?

my favorite radio station is static
i find the melody fills the space
even when i dial up and down
a song never takes its place

turns out there was a limit
to the music that i could play
i wished and i got and the songs disappeared
i thought it better that way.
i thought what i needed was static and gray.
perhaps i should have made the music stay.

for now i'm a wallflower
i've run out of words to say
seems so long since i felt new
for now it's all the same

for now i'll keep my heart whole
no need to answer the phone
seems so long since i took chances
for now i'm fine all on my own

for now i'll keep on moving
there's bound to be an upswing
for now is not forever
who knows what tomorrow will bring

i've got this ache in my chest

says
the
old
man

as his heart lays bleeding on the bench beside him

your hand was a star
glowing
and begging me
to hold you
to feel your warmth
and let it seep into my fingertips
let it crawl up my veins
let golden heat flow up my arm
caress my collarbones
let it spill into my eyes
and make them flicker sunshine brown
let it stroke the crown of my head
twist around my hair
and weave in tiny daises
that smell like rain
and your shirt
and alcohol
let it make me dizzy
dizzy enough to grip your hand a bit harder
and start the cycle again

a single twinkling cello string
echoes through the night
or perhaps that is just the grasshoppers
with their orchestra of breezes and rattling leaves
the sky surrounds me
and only a thin cotton string
ties my floating body to the earth
my heavy heart a magnet to the warm dirt
the stars hum and reverberate
and my vision of the heavens ebbs and flows
like a roll of film with the pieces cut out
and only the moon remains sharp
as if it is only a hop and a skip from my eyes
as if just maybe
if i stretch my fingers far enough

i could reach out and touch nirvana.

once there was a young princess
who was consumed with finding her love
she traveled far and wide to find him
scoured below and above

once there was a foolish princess
who gave her heart away
and received it back in pieces
when her love didn't stay

once there was a broken princess
who met a knight in the woods
and he made her laugh and smile and shout
for his soul was pure and good

once there was a young queen
who learned that love takes different shapes
and the loyal knight that bandaged her soul
showed her that friends can be soulmates

there is a quote from a movie i love
and it talks about being perfectly happy
the main character has completed her arc
she has finished her great journey
and now
she is perfectly happy

perfect happiness

i cannot claim i know of its existence
it might not live in my reality
i think that i am one of those people
who must venture out alone
and might never return
might never finish my journey
never reach perfect happiness
but perhaps i will reach fulfillment
and i think that would be good enough for me
good enough that I may be at peace
at last

the poets are up late at night
we love to see the stars
something is hidden in them we believe
and we spend forever looking upward
trying to find what we are missing
trying to find the last puzzle piece
trying to find
something
amid the velvet expanse of the night

i can see it now
you'll pick me up at the corner
just like you used to
and we'll drive down the coast
heading nowhere with no cares
and the salty pacific wind
will weave through our hair
and make you laugh the way you do
from the bottom of your chest to my smile
you'll play me songs you found
and stowed away for this moment
like tiny treasure boxes of gold
with "i love you" inscribed on the side

this is what i dream about
this is what gives me peace

i never thought i would miss it so much.

it's past midnight now
the house is silent except for the creaking wind
groaning softly through the rusted vent in my floor
the window is cracked open
i can never sleep with it closed
even though the frost bites at my toes
but i like to hear the sighing of the trees
and the cold reminds me that i exist
my headphones buzz the harmonies of strings
the sound will soon leak into my ears
and drown out my incessant overthinking
or so i wish
i close my eyes and hope that sleep will take me

i looked up synonyms for self-love today
and apparently someone who loves themself
is narcissistic,
                          self-absorbed,
            ­                            ­                conceited . . .

how saddened i am
that this is how we perceive those
who live without doubt

i walk my dog alone at night
so i can see the sky better
i walk with him and he doesn't much mind
in that serene dark of december

i smoke
                and i drink

'*** i thought it would help me not to think . . .

but here i am
                         after several shots

thinking all my anxious thoughts.

my grandfather didn't speak much
he barely asked any questions
besides a quiet "how are you?"
he sat in his chair with his newspaper
a grimacing statue
the center of orbit in the house

my grandfather gave me icecream
without me asking
a clinking bowl with sweet vanilla
would appear next to me
and no words would be spoken

my father gives me icecream
without me asking
a clinking bowl before he fades back into the shadows
and i think i'm starting to understand
how we learn to love

i hope i will do more
than give someone a bowl of icecream

welcome to suburbia
where numb is the new norm
stay awhile and realize
it's the quiet and never the storm
oh i'm not complaining
i'm just stuck here waiting . . .

there's a wisp in the shape of a father
and he stands outside my door each night
sometimes he takes human form
just to pour a glass of wine
i've started to see him
in the palms of your hands
and i am so shattered
when i look up to see it isn't him

i don't need to find somebody to love,
i already found them . . .

now i just need somebody to love me back.

us poets are far too arrogante for our words
we speak of intangible things
with such sincerity
convince our readers that we have discovered some sort of truth
tricking them into a false sense of understanding
we think our words and our thoughts are grand
grand enough to be shared and listened too

but perhaps this is okay
perhaps our vague writings of love
and power and greed and anger and sadness
perhaps these poems are not arrogante answers
perhaps we are not tricksters
maybe, just maybe, poets are the translators
of human emotion into ink

but what would I know?
i am just an arrogant poet

death is not a considerate creature

he takes what he wants
not just for spite but also for pleasure

death is a cruel comedian

the more you observe his acts
the more his irony becomes apparent

i wish i was a soft girl
the ones you find in movies
with tears of honey
and kindness that warms like golden sunshine
dewdrop flowers with ambrosial petals
blooming with unwavering patience and soft lips

instead i am just a girl
with a chest of steel
and i am angry
that i foolishly keep waiting
for someone to lift the curtain
and maybe see me
as a soft girl too

i just want somebody for some time
it can be a short forever
as long as you're all mine
whatever you got in mind, i'm down
just hold me for a moment
make me feel a little more found

they have their hands all over my body
from miles away
across the country
no, across the globe
they have groped my chest
like children with a shiny, new toy
wrapped chains around my stomach
kept the key out of reach
deciding themselves that this is their right

they have given me an impossible standard
and no matter how much self love I have
i still think of starving this chapel
until what protects my body melts away
like a popsicle in a hot summer's heat
i hear behind closed doors
the way they can define me in a single word
they way they reduce me to a single caricature

. . .

it is scary
how many of you do not realize
that you are the "they" i speak of

The music was never sad
But now it is
And I can’t quite put my finger on the reason
The wind has quieted down
And the birds are sleeping in the nest
There is a sinking in my stomach
A bug crawls across the screen
Maybe it’s just the night, the wind says
But I don’t think that’s why
No, that’s not the reason why

who ever thought

that life could become

    so

              incredibly



                     ­                 lifeless.

there are girls
that glow like a warm sunset
their bodies are flowers
delicate and small and easy

i am seventeen soon
two days from sunday to be exact
i don’t know how i feel about growing old
i still feel like i am waiting to be young
will it always feel like this?
there were days when seventeen seemed
so unattainable
i didn’t plan to still be
but i’m here i guess
seventeen
how odd

if i died tomorrow,
the many poems stuck in my head would be left unwritten,
and the lyrics hidden in my guitar would remain without a tune.
the "i love you”s i carried to and from school would be covered in regret like thick dust,
almost as heavy as the chains made of “i’m sorry”s concealed in side pockets of my backpack.
the kisses I saved for the right moment would remain in my desk drawer,
melting into a gooey mess of doubt and hesitations.

if i died tomorrow,
i would beg for more time,
and for that I am ashamed.

It was a good life.
For sure, there was no doubting that.
there were parties,
and fun and excitement,
and adventures and lovers and affairs,
and everything anyone had ever wanted.

But that was before.
That was before he met her and his life changed,
and he no longer wanted to aimlessly
but charmingly stumble through the rest of his life.
He was so busy running from one place to the next that before he could stop himself,
she was gone.

And now,
all that was left was a memory.

there was a time
when i was enough for myself . . .
and i do not remember the exact moment
when i decided that i was no longer good.

i seem to always be waiting
perpetually counting the seconds
the minutes
the days
the months
the years
until someday comes.

i am tired.
i do not want to wait anymore.

and i was never told about lust
and the way that it makes love rust

- FELIVAND

he was an angel, you see,
and that was the problem.

i don't think i believe in love anymore
it's just a transaction of brief attraction
it's what the poets write of
what the poets dream of
what hides behind every locked door
they find themselves standing in front of

but dreams aren't real
and thoughts are deceiving
love is a fleeting negotiation

but here we are
still wondering why all the great love stories end in tragedy

there's a boy
but he doesn't know i exist
and maybe i'm okay with that
there will be another
some day
and maybe he will see me
like no one else has

i think about the time when my parents just loved me for being their daughter.
now i have to prove that i am worthy enough to be loved.

I am not my weary bones
that drag me through the mud.
Nor the arms that hang beside me
or the beating of my blood.
Nor the cracking joints and fragile skin
that breaks oh so easily

I am not my tired muscles that strain
and beg me to lie down
My worn out eyes that long for sleep
but can’t let slip my crown
I am not the tears in my eyes
that glisten and wish to weep

What am I, you ask?

I am my beating heart
that pounds like a giant drum
my aching soul, my twinkling laughter
my courageous spirit next to none
I am my brilliant mind
that doesn’t know where I’m ending up,
but I know what I am and I know what I’m not
and for now I think that’s enough.

the perfect ugliness
was ruined
by a broken women
who created beauty

and i'll go to sleep tonight
so i can dream of a boy
who just might love me right

do you think i'm happy?
i just wanna know,
have i been good?
put on the right show?
do you think i'm happy?
have i smiled enough today?
have i laughed enough,
gave all my care away?
do you think i'm happy?
because no one seems to ask
what's going on inside my head,
what's beneath the mask.
do you think i'm happy?
please, god, just say no
because if you don't notice,
i'll know that i'm alone.

i wish i could have been a reason for you to stay.

“i just don’t really wanna be here anymore,” he said softly.

“where? where don’t you wanna be?” i asked.

“i just can’t be here anymore.”

i miss having somebody...
but i don't miss having you.

it feels
a little bit like a dream
the way we would gather in the night
and walk the same path
with hushed whispers
down the elevator
into the lounge
taking our unspoken places
whispering among ourselves
about the day's adventures
but then we would be seated
and someone would break the seal of silence
and we would begin to talk...
about life
about love
about lust
about our futures
our dreams
our deaths
we would predict for each other
what we saw in their crystal ball
though we knew each other
for less days than i can count on my hands
we heard stories about ***
stories about friends
about hometowns
about heartbreak
we shared as many laughs as there are stars in the sky...

and when it all ended
i wondered where the time had gone
or if i had imagined it all.

she waits until the door closes,
and pauses,
and listens,
while her hands grip the bathroom counter,
white like the first blizzard of a snowy December,
and hawklike she listens,
for the slightest creak of the floorboards,
for a stifled hum or a muffled footstep,
and when she hears no one,
her face begins to break,
like a piece of china crashing to the ground in slow motion,
and with one shuddering breath,
she allows herself to fall to pieces.