Esoteria, this marble body wrought of burden
Of the Halcyon days, breathéd in these coarser ways
I peer rapture ‘pon the retina at what you sought
And won to capture.

I see my kind and its soul in artful craft and oil
Marvel at an author’s hand the suffuse horror
Beauty demands. How fickle the smoke of
Inspiration. My torture scratched half on leaf

Come as these came, fleeing we for it Eden
Burned and pacified this trembling hand needn’t pacify
The true desire of my own a prize for heart
‘gainst, I know the pillar lone.

So ebb and flow melancholia go, ‘twas that despair
Walked hand-in-hand down the ****** gates, no worse
For wear, that belle danseuse undone and bare
Morose lines drawn away in the scope of stare.

My future was so painted thus, these seconds were
A stronger pulse, no stranger to my wicked book
But I know difference; set I to find the charm and
Awe her radiance inspired.

Lo, it was not painting nor poetics, but the hand
Sleepy eyes, such confound this tongue and scene
Pathetic—this waylayer of my woe escaped
With the point of her toe, blind to things as I and drapes.

More joyous I couldn’t be, before aesthetics
As such let be and seeking to seek her out
As fiction demands content, I stay devout
Between pillar lone and the crashing wave of dreams

Come pouring forth. Shall I mar this angel,
Crestfallen, who, nay, suffers for awe?
Yes, I must for fear of my echo’s mate so cherished
Is fate for beauty so raw in moment’s time I’ll speak of love.

Her gaze is passed from room to wall as a spectre,
I, unseen and all, reach out, frozen as David to
Frustrate a period in done, unfinished verse
Still climbing, but to now a leveled curse.

‘T’is fitting a hand as mine would rightly ruin
No eye, nor brain, nor mouth a cage, my hex
An artist seeks Elysium so truth to coincide—
I’m vexed—as love and word step from my life
In tow, they from the page.

Perhaps even these can’t sustain the ecstacies
Ecstacies of the unlovely as I at portrait’s gaze
Stand and profane a sacred she or there,
Genius in the gallery still prey for Esoteria.

If I was beautiful
And rich
And my family had a rivalry
With another family in town
I’d definitely fall in love
With one of their kids
And sneak out at night to see him
And he’d crawl in my bed
And we’d fool around
Hoping my parents
Wouldn’t find out
We’d try and run off together
Be free from our parents
And all their expectations
Who would care if we’re young?
We’d be in love
And that’s all that would matter
Right?
So we’d get married
Behind our families’ backs
And come up with some elaborate
Out-of-proportion plan
To run away together
Like they wouldn’t be able to find us
So I'd pretend to die
But Shakespeare’d **** me over
And my man would just play dead
Only for me to really die
So that he could continue
Winning the heart
Of every poor innocent girl
He'd meet
So much for star-crossed lovers
But me
I'm just seeing stars
I’ll never call lucky
And I won’t be thanking

What does it feel like?
My little sister asked
Fourteen
Beautiful
The innocent smile
Of a still naive child
Who’s never felt anything more
Than sweaty palms
In a big echoing gym
Forced to dance with an
Awkward eighth grade boy
For phys ed credit
And embarassment
What does love feel like?

Love is the awkward silences
The first time you hang out
And neither of you knowing what to say
Love is being best friends
Love is racing down back roads at night
Windows down
Music blaring
Slamming on the horn
And flashing headlights
And raising hell
Love is pulling an all nighter
To spend one last night together
Even though you have to work
At 5 am
Love is drinking Yoohoo together
Love is sending stupid videos
And care packages
Because his laughter
Is your favorite song
Love is his huge smile
He only shows you
After you tell one of your jokes
That no one else
Thinks are funny
Love is hugs
And smiles
And texts
And sniped photos
And late night phone calls
And life advice
Love is the tears
And the trust
And not wanting to be
With anyone else
Love is being impatient
Wanting to see him again
Before he even leaves
And love is knowing
Every time you’re staring at brake lights
That you’re too perfect to pass up
Probably

So I turn to my sister
Nineteen
Pretty
The watery smile
Of someone too young
To have been through so much
Who’s never known anything
Close to the perfection I seek
Only liars and cheaters
Who’ve left me broken
And empty
And I tell her
Love is

There was just something
so deeply enamoring,
that you could not only
see it in her existence,
but you can
feel it in her eyes
as well.
That it did not matter
what anyone
thought,
said,
or believed about them.
That all that it only mattered
was what they had-
and that was love.
There were no need
for words,
they understood each other
fluently with just one look.
And with just one look,
serenity soothed their
soul, mind, and heart.
But he-
he only saw her for how
she truly was:
Glorious, radiant, spectacular,
and absolutely perfect
because his perception
of women did not limited
his sight.
He, as a man,
understood quite well
that he had the
responsibility and duty
to assure his woman,
to make her feel,
to make her sense,
that he was not just
captivated,
but intrigued,
in her.
That he was in search
for the depth
of her inner beauty
to the point that it
overwhelmed
all her flaws,
her insecurities,
her fears,
and spark this
wild passion
within her
to want to give her
entire devotion to him.
That she could release
her mind, body and soul.
Entregarse ella misma
so passionately,
so eternally,
to just him and only him.
That she could release
all that beauty that she kept
hidden away.
To finally let someone love
her just for the way she is-
as flawed as she was,
as unattractive as she
sometimes felt,
and as unaccomplished
as she thought she was.
To believe that she had to hide
all the parts
of her that were broken,
out of fear
that someone else was
incapable of loving
what was less than perfect.
How two minds became
infixed with raw love
and tender affection.
Believing that the body
if his woman
was what God promised-
Paradise.
How it should be touched,
how it should be explored
with a rose;
his love.
Caressing her flesh
as though the rose itself
were the wing
of an angel.
He understood
how his woman
should be touched.