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

Just because you're complex,
Doesn't give you the right to be complicated.