I once heard that there are
two kinds of love.
The first kind is the kind from
the movies,
the songs,
the Shakespearian sonnets,
the red-wine-induced conversations;
it is the
magnanimous
amorous
empowering love
that makes you lose your breath
and stumble across your words
until you fall so hard you
float back to the sky,
so emboldened you could
conquer the world in one fell swoop
and inspire hope in the most
hopeless.
The second kind
is the opposite of
empowering for it is
devouring,
cowering,
manipulative,
cold, and
a road paved with
adoring anguish as you
pour all of your bloated heart into
a desperate wish.

I've become exhausted by
door number two
and sit on the lip of
a hope and a prayer that
door number one opens for me
before I quit the
games(how).

10/27/14
say it once more, out loud, or as many times as you want:
"I did not think it would happen like this."
there are seven billion people on the earth right now, and that means about seven billion god complexes, each above my own.
there are things that aren't supposed to be said, and things that are crafted to be left behind. I always compared myself to one of the latter, but now I realize I am the suitcase. I am the hotel shampoo that you leave in your bag only to carry it to the next hotel.
those little bottles have seen a lot.
so have I -- well, enough to know that when people say "don't look down," they mean it. I compiled a list of the ways that I could have said goodbye, and then tore it up, letting the little pieces go one by one from my hand out your car window as it speeded down the thruway.
there are good lights and bad lights and lights in between -- warning lights. if there are no sirens, how can you tell the difference? red is not a color to mess around with. and please, whatever you do, please don't get it on the walls. people will get the wrong idea.

A memory...
A reminder of who you were
Who you are
What you were
What you will be

Think, think, think
Remember...
Those moments in time
Those ideas
Those dreams
Those thoughts

Remember
Who you wanted to be
What you wanted to see

The love, the hate
The joy, the sadness
The simple, the complex
Remember...

The failure, the success
The dreams
The goals
Remember...

That's who you are
That's who you were
That's who you will become.
Remember?

Sometimes after I've
Had a drink or two,
Or a few more,
I convince myself that I can
Find what I want
In the superficial distractions,
Building my ego in faked conversations,
Pretending to be the careless girl
I've never really been able to be,
But pass me one more beer
So I can text every other
Y-chromosome in my phone
And pretend the meaningless
Exchange of dialogue
Even minimally replaces the gross
Urge I repress
To send you the stifled sonnets
That lay dormant at the pit of
My suppression.

Oh,
how conflicted is the soul
of a poet,
for we yearn for nothing more
than to share the deepest depths,
our nakedness and rawness in
the beautifully
tragic love we feel,
but how much do we
try to individualize
that that lies inside, to make ourselves
stand out, for we
experience the world in sensory means
beyond the normal comprehension
of those around us;
how badly we wish for our
word choice and alliteration
to breathe life into the persons
who never hopefully
comprehend our creativity,
for we are arrogant in our
supernatural secret-keeping,
in our mind games and
manipulation.
Oh, how I bless my soul,
a poet lost
deep in the depths of my own
emotion,
of my never-waivering devotion,
to being the most uniquely recognized
and desperately bittersweet
wide-eyed doe
that ever did aggressively
permit the world
to melt so fervently into a home
within her.

Sometimes you just have to stop and smell the roses,
and if there are no roses find something else to smell.
Life moves to fast; don't take it for granted.
Diseases spread and so do legs.
Both can change lives.
One brings life and
one destroys it.
**It's up to you to decide which one is which.

Mind numb, but really only asleep.
Blank, unperturbed, but that is impossible.
A white and blank sheet of paper is the impending rapture of peace.
We are commanded to improve the page.
Can one write on white with white?
Nay, a darker shaded mark one must leave.
For to write  a story one must have
both the black and the white;
Put in print
no need to sprint
to find what is said.

The Great writer made the world white,
and introduced a plight that allowed him to write.
And the print said to itself,
“The writer is out of sight; leaving us dark, cast and in the past.”
Til long at last all the paper shall be made anew.
In that day the page of black and white will fade to gray,
all the same will be arrayed,to start again.
Don’t ask when, just know;
That all will go from simple
to complex
to simple again.

I miss you,
Clear cut,
Crystal globe,
When the stories of the past,
Hung more or less straightly,
Like the ribben suspending you