hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.

I don't know what it means
when all you can write about
is the man of your dreams

I don't know what it means
to feel cared about in beautiful
ways like he seems to

I don't know what it means
to have a guy that would to anything
to see the bright smile appear again

I don't know what it means
to have a guy care about you
the way he makes carrying seem.

but what I do know is if its
something that is true
I want you and only you
to show me what it means.

i was once told that i was never going to be good enough for love. that i spend too much of my time tending to the needs for people whom i loved, and i will never have that in return. Always planting forests for people who only burn them down. That i am type of girl that has only ever known ashamed love. A love that is always hidden behind closed bedroom doors and smothered under soft cotton sheets. The kind of love that is not love, never love, but lust. the word itself has been slipped through lips glossed with poison, but has only left me weak and ill.

I could heal you;
The toxin that rages inside could be no more,
If you would only give me the tools.

I could find your broken pieces.
I could break down your walls.
I could show the beauty again that once was.

I could be your escape.
I could be the one to give you sunshine after the rain.

I could be your antidote.
I could cancel out their poisons.
I could do the opposite of those by whom you've once been broken.

I could teach you how to trust.
I could teach you how to love.
I could teach you how to once again be you.
I could be your antidote if you would allow me to.

you're trying to chip away at my stony exterior, you said.
there's no gold under there.
i am **** through and through.

sorry.

i thought my salvation was in your arms
but your body and blood are not holy
they are human

there is no resurrection in your kiss
i would prefer bread and wine
at least they don't stink of cigarettes

Poetry~ They can't know it's me,
I tell myself they'll never know.
It is my way to flow,to let go.

The words in my head need to be freed,
But the windmills won't turn,
It's only a breeze.

Maybe if they could see how I see,
Or feel what I feel,
Maybe they'd know how I feel is real.

"Why so locked up?
You're not as loquacious.
You used to be loud, annoying, bodacious."

I think what you're seeing is what you remember,
The little girl I was, that was last December.

Now the May flowers are springing,
The haikus they're bringing.

To the world that's now opened,
My small self seems choked.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not very old,
But despite my young age my experience grows.

I know what I think, and I know that I'm right
So please don't be blinded by your bias in sight.

My age is merely a mark,
So please, don't stop me before I start.

~Kj

tell me-
is it hard knowing everything is the same?
because my god you feel like stone
beautiful marble
carrying the appearance of warmth
but in reality
cold and unbending
to change you would mean
I must chisel away your edges
but in softening your sharpness
the beauty would be lost
the elusive warmth would dissipate
and I would be left with the pebbles of what you held inside

In the summer, it was too hot to know you. I spent the nights with everyone but you, crowded on the trampoline in my backyard. In the fall, you bloomed (too early or too late for spring?) into my cerebrum, every thought that crossed my mind. You stayed that way in winter, when maybe the cold never bothered me but you sure did, or maybe it was how I was moonstruck and frostbitten in lust with you. We will thaw in the spring, I feel it in my roots and branches and the way my heart will freeze over again (too early or too late for winter?). I don't want that, the way the image of you kissing her—just like how you kissed me, except with a fire the cold weather didn't permit— will invade the spaces just you (just you) did months before. I'll see your lips on her sober or drunk, awake or asleep, eyes open or closed. You are my sin, my soul, and my salvation, even if you love her (or the ones that'll follow) in the way I see you and you never saw me back. 525,600 times you played and plagued my seasons and my breath.

what are we
but moments caught in eternity
there is no linear
there is no clear
thought
i am fraught
with anger and pain and perseverance
the height clearance
snaps me in half
let me catch
my breath
and ready for death ....
there is no pain like the present