I'm having a pitty party
with an exclusive guest list.

Me is bringing the heartbreak,
the ******* that she can't let go of from her past...

Myself is hosting with alcoholic beverages that I is going to ignore in attempt to do the right thing.

It should be...
Interesting.

I wish it was easy to say who I am.
I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author
Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type
Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional.
I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs
I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations.
That marked my existence
I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it
Moved through my organs and around my chest
And when you cracked it open knowing who I am
Would be as easy as reading a book
I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak
That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the
Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin
That would explain everything
When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery
And the chapters printed on my visible teeth
Could tell you exactly why.
If God was an author I would be a character
And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance
Why do I bite my nails?
Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous
I do it to be close to her
That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it
Because that fits my story
Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew
Me better than I knew myself and that, that
Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders.
The horrible weight of self-defining
Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself?
To have someone do it for you
Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure
And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all
What if you could just look down at your body
And see words that told the story of you.
What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing
Who you are and what your purpose is.
I wish I was literature
So finally I could through my hands up
Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.”
I like the sound of the ocean
Black and white movies
I get sad when it rains
Just read me.

You will not tame this sea
either by humility or rapture.
But you can laugh
in its face.

Laughter
was invented by those
who live briefly
as a burst of laughter.

The eternal sea
will never learn to laugh.

She was little, smart and brave. Barely five
her thoughts reflected an older woman.
My sister looking at me to survive,
Her silly smile asking me this question…

Whatcha  gonna do when the day turns blue?
When the sky fills with the many lonely tears,
You ask and beg then nobody comes through.
You're left soaked to the bone when no one hears.

The day becomes all time, slowly filling
with blue. Overwhelming and contagious.
You can’t stop it, but you are not trying.
That’s what you have to do, fly when wingless.

Not because you can, but because you must.
Fill the world with the light inside your soul.
This is what I told her, and I began
to tell her of how a mare loves her foal.

The honey smell of thunder clouds, the feel
of a dog’s soft wet tongue rinsing your cares
down the drain. Every wound can start to heal.
Of sitting by a fire in big armchairs.

These are feelings she has yet to know. Soon
she will touch the velvet of a lambs ear.
My wise butterfly leaving her cocoon.
Of all I wish for you, one thing is clear.

Never feel the blue, and think no one will
break through.  Because you will be forever
laughing in sun. At last your worries still.
I will always be there your one anchor

If you see me
tell me to take your hand,
to stop the fall, to finally land,
before I reach the bottom of a black-bearded abyss.
Don't miss,
oh, and maybe one more kiss
before I see me
pulling everything away.

My eyes couldn't pound
through the seductive sound
the click
tick
stick
of the lock.
You saw me
your fingers tucked
deep in the pockets of your silence.