there’s a rabbit with moon hooded eyes inside of my heart
and every night she looks up to the stars
yearning not to break apart

my rabbit and i feel fine most of the time
but when she starts racing i cry
because my mind believes my existence is a crime

and my heart can’t take it
she thinks she must’ve stopped
so she relentlessly pumps
creating dangerous music; thud thud thud

and look! there goes my rabbit
thrashing around in my war torn lungs
creating chaos in case of catastrophe
because future battles must always be won

the lights beamed ahead with an intense ferocity
and the cars race by my slow moving eyes
and a bug, a thought crept down my spine
i could never be like them
not with my empty tank
not with the hands i tied behind my back
not sitting in the backseat
watching my life fly away from me
the front seat remains empty
the wheel jeers
while i peer at that front seat day after day
longing to feel the smooth leather against tired skin
but
never growing up enough
never finding the courage to love
enough to live my life

you take from people
i know because you took from me
a fragile soul
a dim but growing light
a place in the world
that wasn’t shadowed by you
you take without regard
and fill yourself up with
the light of others
their passion
their dreams
and like a parasite, you feast
until
****
the light goes out
the passion extinguished
the soul rots
you took and took
you selfish self obsessed ****
and in your wake
i’m left with
a shell
a misery
an emptiness
you use people until they’re all used up
then find another girl to ****

never allow myself closeness
keep a chain locked around my heart
crouch in my mind’s darkness
hide from a world i’m sure is bent on tearing me apart

never let them know who you really are
protect yourself in an empty smile’s armor
build walls surrounding your soul so you can shove it away far
bathe in the peaceful emptiness of being your only harmer

realize you’ve never felt love
panic because you don’t know you
ruminate: i’ve spent my whole life In Fear Of?
choke on the answer keeping you in the noose

find the girl you’ve denied
and tell her she doesn’t have to die

The door, half-open, the sound
Of piano keys one by one
Accelerating, rushing,
Then, softly and gently
Fingertips only
On your neck
And my hair;

The doormat, greasy,
White stains on black,
White stains on white,
White saints above,
And below — white Snow.

Hands jump
From one place to another,
Passionate, yet thoughtful,
Albeit slightly nervous;
A black bough
With a little cloud atop,
Red on white,
White on black
And white on white again.

A lucid view
Through an opaque surface,
Chills mixed with warmth
Within and around;
Muted soft sound
Goes on for a while,
Numbs the senses,
Then, suddenly, a couple
Of accurate and precise
Touches make such
Clear and dazing notes,
That you just sit there
Overwhelmed.

The drum, slow and steady
And swingy and lazy,
As the body trembles,
Bends slightly, freezes
And goes crazy;

Translucent wings
Flutter over white
And black and gold,
The bird serenades
In the dim, shivering light.
He puts
his hands
Around her body
And a calming, warm,
Quiet sound
Of a pulsating heart
Blurs and blends
All the colours:
White on gold,
Gold on black,
Black on white,
White on hazel
And so on
And so forth;

An upright bent
Of the bent upright;
Hold on,
Forever.

The end.

I asked my dad to lend me one of his hats
I got Booked for a part in a popular tv show as a field worker
How about that?
It’s perfect. That’s where I come from
In the early morning hours he stopped by my home and left me one of his favorite sombreros and a small lemon cake
The memories lemon cake brings are bittersweet
Years ago, when I was a kid and I was too high, lemon cake was the only thing I could eat
Now it’s the life I grow inside of me’s favorite treat
Feelings that a lemon cake could bring
Are tangy but sweet
Like my adolescence
I take a bite and memories surrender
And they’re welcomed,
I’m grateful to be able to remember
Where I come from.

First Steps
by Michael R. Burch

for Caitlin Shea Murphy

To her a year is like infinity,
each day—an adventure never-ending.
    She has no concept of time,
    but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.

I would caution her, "No! Wait!
There will be time enough another day . . .
    time to learn the Truth
    and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! . . ."

But her time is not a time for cautious words,
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
    She is just certain
    that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!

Little does she know that her first few steps
will hurtle her on her way
    through childhood to adolescence,
    and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!

Keywords/Tags: child, childhood, adolescence, pubescence, growing up, first steps, walking, running, aging

how wonderful is the essence of childhood innocence and naivety?
children who question even the simplest daily tasks you complete so many times you’ve lost count make you wonder what it was like to complete the task for the first time.

how wonderful is the simplicity in thinking, the yearning for knowledge that is yet to be obtained?
the question as to why you drink coffee instead of a babyccino or wine over juice allows for our true motives to be exposed; for we do not always consciously choose coffee over babyccino. the idea, to an average adult, would be absurd!

‘me, an adult, drinking a babyccino? how childish.’

but why wouldn’t you choose babyccino over coffee? coffee makes grown ups shake and trip over their words, eyelids jammed open exposing their bloodshot soul.

do we choose coffee for fear we’d be perceived as childlike if we’d have chosen babyccino? what is so terrifying about the ideology of childhood? why do we crave growing up so badly and with such haste? what is so shameful about the questioning of existence and looking knowledge in the eye, desperate to have the last word?

why don’t we choose juice over wine? is the taste of sweet comfort too overbearing for your tongue? does the colour of orange juice remind you of wednesday mornings when you come downstairs, keen to work with jellybeans in maths as your teacher had promised you the day before? or maybe the coloured counters which had been stored away for a while because a classmate was caught trying to eat one.  

the truth is, wine is bitter. no matter how refined your taste might be, there is an undeniable bitterness in wine which adults love to ponder, the same way they love to ponder over pessimistic news stories that are equally as bitter. they discuss the wine, using pretentious words to describe the undertones and how sensual it tastes, refusing to acknowledge the overt bitterness they are so eager to gobble up when they return to sobriety.

‘it’s too sweet,’ they’d shake their heads at the palm which offers apple juice, while eagerly smiling and nodding at the dark, tinted glass which induces headaches.

how about the brittle roll of grey, tossed on our doorstep every morning? the one you ask me to fetch you in the youth of the day, when sparkling sun-rays dance on my face? what do you make of the fine print that tells you what is occurring on the side of the world submersed in slumber while you’re in your wake?
what do you make of the numbers that tell you it’s warm outside?
why not feel the warmth from the orange orb above yourself?
why not dance under the small droplets of the ‘mist’ setting on your hose?

and why do we lose ourselves to the pursuit of validation, to the judging eyes of the streetwalkers which our eyes never lasted more than a second on when we were younger?
i now write as someone who is tired, ability to think in a childlike manner worn down heavily from the constant chafing of dawning adulthood. but i also write in the hope that small moments like these will recur, like clouds in the sky clearing momentarily for the sun to smile at me.

though looking up i’m often met with a vast, grey face, i shall continue to smile at the silver wrinkles, engraved by years of laughter and juvenile innocence.

pack your bag run away
along the freeway girl
out of town

out of town yeah!

mother dead daddy drinks
you're alone just get out

think of you you are good
you are good think of you

there's a car
raise your thumb
touching speed
touch the speed

of your needs yeah!

you want it why not now?
why the wait? you want it
now now now now now now

in the back of his car
every inch is your game
call his name call his name

a ladies game yeah!