I could have chosen mermaids and described their piercing songs
or a story about dragons who drank the golden sun,
this could have been a tale of the troubles in the war
of a nurse and wounded soldier who
fell for so much more.

But every time I try to write like this my pen can't catch
my mind, it runs
off so that my thought's broken to
bits
I suppose like our relationship,
until all that remains
is you
is me
on separate lines, in separate beds, with separate thoughts left unsaid.

So here it is my final confession
and last disclosure because I owe nothing to you,
no thought through words
and certainly not a poem
but it all seems so wrong when
every line is about who I don't want to write about anymore
I don't want to write about you anymore
I don't want to write about you
I don't want to.
I don't want you,
not anymore.

Falseness becomes you, little plastic angel
marble eyes roll, liquid sky drops of ***** coolness
never-changing
hair so fine, my heart wants to glide along your ribbons and silk like
figureskating
welts glow red on my skin as your bronzed alabaster shimmers respectably
kiss me once more; i want to taste the diamond on your lips
glitter glitter glitter
until it's time to tear away the mask
and then what are you?

Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.

Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.

But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.

I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.

However,
now I see that I've got potential.

But that's it.
For now.
Potential.

I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.

I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.

I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.

I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.

But alas,
I can do none of those things.

I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.

I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.

But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!

Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.

For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.

I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******,
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.

Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.

And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.

And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.

And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.

And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.

And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!

But until then,
I shall simply live.

I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.

And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.

And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.

Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.

© 2014 Rembrin Hawke

A flood should not feel
Like a choke-hold.
A landslide should not
Remind me of a paw swipe.

Was that an earthquake
Or your death rattle?
Is this the falling tide
Or your dying breath?

What if healing comes from tears?
And it'll be harder to know
What's pure and fake

What if a blessing comes from rain drops?
If the rain makes you sick,
Would you play with it and seek blessings?

What if sleepless nights are what it takes
To know He's always near?
But you take so much pills
And abuse your body
The Temple of the Holy Spirit

What if dreams only come true
When you let go of things you hold so much?
And at times, need to give up your own
For the sake of others' lives.

What if your greatest fears and pains
Are the keys for greatest thirst this world can't satisfied?
And what if every failure and storms
Are the disguises of the *love and mercy of God?

"The ocean, the shore, and the grass

The difference between them three"

Can one see where I am?

Here laying in the grass,

Following up to what appears

To be whatever it appears to be

I can’t tell what I need

So content without

But so colorful when you look out

The shore

Like therapy that leaves its mark

I need to be washed

The remains of the abyss

Sink me in

The agony of the hot sun

Wearing me out till I become none

I need to go

Where the tides say no

The ease of the lake

My past feels fake

Will I ever respawn

‘*** now I’m forever gone

I was trying to give suicide a try
But the question came up why?
It seemed the clouds had voices to live
The bible seemed to say, I had continuing living to give
No matter how bad things seem to get
Don’t let your heart sink into regret
God’s word is the best bet
It’s the Devil trying to confuse my mind
This always happens when the Devil uses his sources in combine
A thin line between survive
God’s everlasting in strive
When I was going to say goodbye
I was no longer a victim, and life became worth living in making a try.

In space we seem weightless.
Hidden by face.
A reflection of inside,
who we are
when we fall.

Space is kind,
but space is cruel.
Honoring the solitude,
while grasping to never fly nor fall.

An angel without the wings,
hovering over the sky.
Not falling.
Not floating.
Just being..
there.

Repetition reminding,
we exist nowhere.

Leaving fear,
and apathy,
seen in distance,
and serenity.

Pleasure overflowing to the ants,
deep,
deep,
in the empty of the stars,
who cannot see but the dull,
of eternity surround.

Breathing slow,
for the unanswered questions,
and the unquestioned answers,
that create a star so bright.
Being a instrument of the extraterrestrial night.
Lined perfect,
to ***** the blindness in elevation,
bid the truth of all whom felt the sensation.
Springing from these hands,
possible-
a true revelation?