In a distant meadow lies my mind
To get there, I cannot tell you how—
It is not a place that all can find
But if you're lucky and the path is kind
It will open up so that my thoughts you can unwind
And I can see it now

Fields of dandelions are where I hide
So come in spring to make a vow
For on the wind our wishes ride
Make a wish to say you tried
And only the weeds will know if you lied
Can't you see it now?

It does not matter if you mean well
I sometimes make mistakes in who I allow
Between poison and passion I cannot always tell
So you may come to stay but do not dwell
And of my secret garden do not tell
To those who would turn a paradise into hell
And I can see it now

Wildfires— the flames I cannot tame
Confusion, pain and anger that furrows my brow
Putting pesticides to primroses it's such a shame
My daffodils lament, they cry for who to blame
Does such sorrow, such grief have a name?
Can't you see it now?

When you turn my meadow into a burial mound
Where seedlings will not sprout— they can't remember how
You turn it into a place where no dream is found
Where no wishes or vows can be bound
And where loves whispers dare not sound
And I can't see it now

I hate me
Unless I should die now for thee.

I hate my life
Ere I bade this end into broken strife.

Keep a sigh in the lonesome sky!
I wanna die.

I scratch the neon paper with thoughts in my mind-
The way you scathed laboured wood under dim candle light.
Clueless to my aptitude the falsity of what is new
What I know is- You, not you but your marvelous craft-
papyrus paper and pen, quill to bound book.

a word doesn't have to be real for it to have meaning
nothing has to be real for it to grip your stomach and throat and force butterflies into every part of your anatomy
the emotion crawls under your skin and all you can do is feel it

a woman rises in the dawn with her fiery red hair, eating men like air
you become that smiling woman, only 17 and not even a lady
dying becomes your art, and you are indeed very good at it

a man frowned like thunder and went away, the stars not needed today
you begin to pack up your very own sky, melancholy filling your entire world until it all comes to a standstill
wind does not blow and not even streetlights shine
your very own lover is still in tact, a phone call away even
but he frowned like thunder and went away

a raven, a remorse, a rapping at the chamber door
a madness, a mania, a man whose mind is gripped by loss
a horror that now belongs to you, the pigeons on the street start to quoth "nevermore,"
every crow is an omen, every bird is wandering through purgatory just to torment you,
and you have no loss to speak of

I dreamt I wrote that feeling, I dreamt I put it into words
I dreamt I transcended humanity, I dreamt I became the art
I dreamt about the feeling, I dreamt you felt it too

I listen to the wind blow
But I do not watch for I do not know
Because of fright I do not look
I just continue to read my book
The strong howls that I hear
Seem to strike up too much fear
For it to be just a gust of air
Why do I feel such a great scare?
Ever so often the moon peeks
To show the little light I seek
I dare to glance out the window
Only to see the basic I did know
But take another look again
And there I see a chilling friend
I quickly run to lock the door
But I must glance just once more
Expectant to see the creepy stranger
Nothings there just my deepest anger
My eyes I use as such a sturdy tool
Seem to do nothing but make me a fool
I must suffer a sleepy head
So I turn back to go to bed
Than before I know it
I am dead

All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.

I’m like a knock-off Edgar Allen Poe
But instead of raving about a raven
I croon about a crow
Who comes a-fluttering
And I start my muttering
About I do not need savin’