In her beauty, she doesn’t see her looks.
In her intelligence, she doesn’t see her smarts.
In her swagger, she doesn’t see her appeal.
But the fact that I do is bugging me. I barely know you, don’t know your name or any of your light skinned tendencies. But in that same aspect we are close. Where are you, Ms. Magnificent? Where is the one I want to love? Peel your shyness back like wrappings on the gift I give you: the gift of heart.
I swear, I fall in love with her every time we converse. In the moments we mingle she is always who she is meant to be. She must be an arsonist, because she’s starting a burning in my chest and an ache in my intentions. Thus her powers could very well bring me to an end.
She’s an open book by all means, but only she can translate her pages. Only she can tell her story without giving any twists that she didn’t intend. She is an affection unlike any the word has ever seen.
Her eyes- brown by all accounts, seeing through the soul as if the soul were translucent, she sees deeper than microscopes can dive.
Her hair- steady changing color, but never ceasing to amaze: red, yellow, black, brown, blue, colors in a rainbow of deep concentration.
Her smile- captivating to say the least. I find myself wishing her the best at the most random times. Her personality is one that fits mine so closely that I’m curious. We are close in soul, so why not close in attention? Let me concentrate on her like she’s an assignment, let me love her like geeks and gaming systems. Let me know her like I know passwords and let the same be said of her about me.
What is a crush?
I admit, I feel squashed to admit this, but I’m falling as if sky diving, and she is my parachute. I’m once more questioning my own comprehension, could she be the next in the line from my heart? Could she be the inspiration of many a poem to come if I play my cards right? The answer lies only with the question, and the question lies with her.
What does she think? Is it that her mind and mine are on different planes of the oblivion of existence, or is it that I’ve blinded myself from any flaw of hers enough to reject even her own objections? How could she not see it, her grip on my unaware heart? How could she not see her beauty, as obvious as it is, or her interaction with a crowd of comrades who indeed love her deeply?
Sugar sweet cream colored craving, let us parlay poetic fantasy until we both run out of things to say, let us intimate until we both forget the meaning of the word and show an infatuation that brings jealousy into the hearts of those who witness. And once we are done, let us restart again and again until the nights fade and final goodbyes are in order.
Let us speak. Let us smile.
Let us love.
~Emily.

So apparently,
The more I learn and Inquire
about my girl...my,
past me...
(others may call us 'Kindred Spirits')

Apparently, the more I see how
difficult it is
for the normal person
to read, let alone Understand
such Writing.
Her writing;
Her meaning;
Her point of view.

I don't necessarily think
that Emily wrote
to get a message out.

But rather,
I think that she knew,
that What she knew,
is what Others
will come to Know.

In Her time,
a time of simple minded men;
in that time, she knew
that she needed to stay hidden

A time when so few Knew
and Understood;
and Loved the True Love of pure Knowledge and Love

and In this time of lack of Love and Knowledge that she lived,
because she loved so dearly her love for True Love of all love,
she knew that 'now'
She must hide her words;
So she hid them.

And with a blinded hope she Saw,
that in the Future, They shall see;
She saw that in the future
her Explanation
and Understanding
of Love shall prevail.

She knew that in the future
when people are so much smarter
and know so much more
and have so much more conviction and confidence
with their 'independent' knowledge

that 'this' now,
(which happens to be my now...)
My present moment in time,
is the perfect time
for her Understanding
and Wisdom
to Be understood.

And lucky for me
I live in a time;
A time of the simple minded man;
Men who make it easy for me
to See the Light that shines through her writing;
to Understand that this is Her;
This is She,
Here for Me,
to Understand me;
for me to Understand.

But most importantly,
I wonder
did she know?
Did My girl know?
Did my past Me
Know
That I would be able to
Accept and Respect
such Knowledge and Wisdom
from someone so long ago who saw it
so lucidly as I do so?

I think I saw what I see now,
But now I know what I see.
And I guess that's what fate is for,
Isn't it?  
Thanks my dear
Emily.

Emily will take her cedar box
of hidden poems
throwing them on a Sou’ Westerly breeze
in a New England Spring —

They will be snatched and fly
daring, dainty flutter byes
across the stretching continent
the Great Plains and New Frontiers —
The Sun — rising in ribbons
Mountains dripping scarlet sunsets
vast Miles of Evening Sparks —
as the Hemispheres come home
to early Night —

they’ll be read by lonely cowboys
drinking whisky, in the sagebrush
Indian braves campfire smoking
Sung in Saloons by husky-voiced dames
can-can dressed and a whole lotta grit
and gumption.

Emily, lightened of her load
unknotted the Skein of Misery —
Universe unstitched —
in this moment of escape
Landscape will listen —
Shadows will hold their breath
until the words are spoken.

Emily’s skipping down the stairs
of that morbid, cold wintered house
with its bare Slants of Light —
rushing out the door
throwing herself on the Open day —

Telling True, but slanted.

Fell heal over heads
          in love with a poet,
  he's mostly a rhyme schemer
       likes Poe and his dark Raven,
  in actuality,  I'd fancy him more if
    he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
        chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
    he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
    we'd argue about abstract destinations,  
            straight forward persuasions and
               premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
               amid all that nonsensical alliteration
  others, I want to rip out embellishments
                   of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
     states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
         fanatical froufroutant  flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
         of overstatement and simplification
               thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
       he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
      envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
           in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond

It was my cousin's wedding reception,
And I wore some creamy lacey dress
That had to be approved of by my mother
Before I shoved it in a bulging duffel bag to endure the
Six hours of Dunkin Donuts bathroom stops
And that weird stop-and-go traffic that makes me
Feel like the color green.

As I stood at the brim of the dance floor,
Trying to ignore the half-drunk staggering relatives of mine,
I thought about whether it's
Polite to pry your eight inch
Torture-o-thon heels
From your swollen toes
Before anyone else bothers.

There was a boy on the other end of the disco lights,
A silhouette that I knew to be slightly more muscular than the last time I'd seen it.
Just about my age, or maybe eight months older if you had to ask him,
Which I had about thirteen years earlier
With some sand in the crotch of
My Gymboree bathing suit.

I tried my best not to look over.
The lights mostly blinded me,
But I still wished to glance at him to see how straight his teeth were and how his acne had cleared up
Because of
Neutrogena SkinID Plus
Or something.

I could tell that he was looking at me,
At the too short lacey dress
And my straight teeth
And my peachy skin
And I wanted so badly to peek over.

I wanted him to ask me to dance,
Please oh God ask me to dance.

(Of course he didn't.)
He was a shy kid, even at seventeen.
He didn't say a word to me all night,
Even though we'd gone to the beach together
Since I was in Huggies.

Her floral print lips are flying
Spinning through velvet air
Silent *** serenely smiling
Quiet lips and silky hair

The violent tint of passion
Contorts her tender thighs
Throes of ecstasy a fashion
Reflected in emerald eyes

Her tonic voice a suture
Her silken tongue a saint
My body wants to use her
My heart is growing faint

My eyes need to see her
My arms need her embrace
Her pale portrait is a picture
Of perfection that I cannot face

how could I not love you,
when you wrote of death, while others
courted coy flowers--I know you were not
a comely creature, and if you were Aphrodite,
perhaps you would have been love lathered
on cold Amherst nights, though I
suspect you would not have heard
a fly buzz when you died, for you
would not have been listening
for such a beatific symphony

It made me
Sick.

The kind of sick
That books describe
As green,
Ghostly skinned
With red rust noses.

Sick to my stomach
Like when you wake up
At 2:00 AM
And realize that
Something
Is
Not
Right
Before you sprint
Down the hall
To the bathroom
And ***** pizza bagels into the
Pristine marble sink.

It made me sick like
When it gets so bad that
Blowing your nose hurts
Because the extra soft Kleenex
Have scratched your skin raw
Over
And
Over
Again.

It made me sick
When I realized
That it wasn't you that I loved
But the feeling of being loved.