Every time,
A little piece of  this,
A little piece of that,
get's closer to ****** me,
to take over my mind.
Every time,
I believe in this drug,
that walks straigt to my mind,
To fill me up with poison.
You twist me,
Shake me,
Break me.
Until the end comes near,
And all these happy tears,
slightly dissappear.
They won't change my life,
I'm happier living without this fire.

allowed the scent to stain the tips
of each appendage
as I rubbed the delicate petals between
watching how hues of purple
slid gracefully along side the curves, the honey
gold sunlight dripped
ignited the slight variations of dark nightshades from light creams
the hint of white, the shudder of black in each tint
I turned my hands upright
watching fragments cascade to the sidewalk below me

Introduced him into my life
slipped the necklace off my neck and gave him
the exact directions to the destinations
that made me safe
scared
weak
strong
the potions that awakened each aspect in my life
granted him the open doors to each variable that
emulated my entity
turned the side of me, the numb variations that dictated logic,
reason,
protection
and forgot to listen to the words he spoke
as the evening rose above the
firs, evergreens.

how do you make fire,
she asks me.

i steal it off your eyes
every time
you think about him

and it burns.


-- Eleanor

you were so very pretty
the first time i saw you
it was spring
and you were a dream
soft and longing
every smile
blossomed with fragile hope

then the chill in the air gave way to
warm summer breezes in june
and you became more real  
no longer shifting in and out of existence
more solid
more beautiful
i wanted to plant flowers
along the paths you took
so you could only walk on
a lovely road from now on

when june turns to july
and july melts into august
when the leaves fall in september
i'll still want to clear a way for you
you won't be a dream anymore
you won't be a hazy existence
with every step you take
you'll leave your footsteps
singing in the autumn leaves
it will be less painful, then

\ \

I Don't Believe in love at
First line, not the second line
takes me to the third....

Why is it that that every time I try to write a poem my first thought is to write it about you.