She's got a poet's voice.
One that makes sounds
as effortless as the wind,
describing the way
her mind wanders in Nevada.

I wonder if my voice sounds like that,
when the phrases exit my lips.
I doubt it.
If she sounds like the wind,
I sound like a old train horn.

You ran the knife along your arm
until the plastic cut your paper skin.
As I pulled it from your grasp
you asked why
the pain and guilt
gleaming in your eyes
and I noted as I looked at you,
that plastic knives can cut too.

You never said you were fine.

I mentally compared
your arm to mine
holding back tears because
I was too angry to cry

The half cross you bear now
made me furious
because there was nothing I could do
to change it.
You'd gotten to far along
without intervention.

And I took responsibility.
It felt like my fault.
Like the wound was on my arm,
and I poured in the salt.

I'm sorry.
You deserve more than the faint scar

Her wide rim glasses gave her away.
Long white hair and a soft face,
a wide contrast from the one
I was expecting.
Though they both held the
permanently risen eyebrows,
a sure sign of a poet,
She wasn't the laureate
with the short hair and daring face.

She told stories of trespassing.
She spoke as though
her life was that of an adventurer,
convincing us through
clever thoughts and rhyming words.

I listened,
almost unsure because I was
waiting for Star,
Not realizing I was missing one.

She likes trains.
I learned this because she was trying to fill up her five minutes.

She seemed unsure
but her stories told otherwise.
She spoke of marble bridges and Finland colours,
Enchanting enough that I didn't learn her name until afterwards.

Margret.

An English teacher
unafraid of rambling,
but terrified of going over time.

The stars mean so much to me because they put the universe in my hands and beg me to alter it.

They're the only company known,
while the world sleeps, and I can't.

What an incredible experience it is to see your world at rest, riddled with the pain of knowing you can't join them.

Every step I took was controlled.
I had to resist sprinting,
my life on my tail.
I'd taken a quiet road,
begging something to happen.
Anything.
I knew I couldn't run from this,
(and really I just needed something to run from)
but the road was open
they'd never find me
though it left marks in the air,
they couldn't track my breath
and there was nothing else to track.
I could have left.

I don't care about being famous.
A well-known life isn't necessarily
a better one.
The one thing I do care about,
is lack of normality

I wish this life was enough for me
but it's not

every empty road calls to me
like a lover left behind
every day,
like an opportunity lost

I need adventure so badly it hurts,
and I wonder if I got it,
if I'd stop sitting on cliffs
while I contemplated what it would feel like to fall
what the wind rushing over my silver hair would feel like,
whether or not it would be worth it

I've contemplated death because it holds more potential than my life.

I understand that I shouldn't.
But on more than one occasion,
I've stood with the intention to fall.

I've walked on roads
with an intention to run.

I live every day in dread of having nothing to fight.
I've been cursed with such an easy life, when I was born with a fighting soul.

A wave of sadness
hit the city this week.
For the first time in a while,
everything was unbearable.
It was almost like there was a death
of a person we all knew,
affecting all our lives
and leaving us dead inside.
Like the God of liveliness
gave up on us for a week
leaving us to fight against the
lack of light on our side.
Smiles, real or fake,
never reached our eyes
resulting in quiet empty looks
like we had lost the will to thrive.
Probably because we had.