Elle a un certain

je ne sais quoi
je ne sais quoi
je ne sais quoi

que
j'adore.

Mais.

remember to let them know
that
talent
is not a luck

so when you
paint words
that are impossible to craft

or

sing a high note
with
so much passion
and confidence

let them know it is not by luck

Being a woman is tough
We constantly struggle with finding the balance
Between strength and vulnerability
Sometimes it can be too much
Having to exude our feminine power
And dealing with masculinity

What is a woman to do
When she wants to play in a man's world?
Does she toughen up and play with the boys
Or remain a timid, overly emotional girl?
Maybe it's best for a woman
To learn both sides of the species
She can rule the world being vulnerable and feminine  
With a dash of masculinity

Why do I write poetry:
Many nights I have slept
With words of yours wrapped all around me
And now every time I lay
Those words whisper to me.
I must write to maintain my sanity.

Why do I write poetry:
Sometimes when I see sunset all I can think of is how you were the light of my eyes and when you left the sun set and it has never dawned since then
And I must write; ode to its remembrance

Why do I write poetry:
Sometimes I get really confused as to where I'm going except that no road will be taking me to you and the brown of the earth is the closest I'll get to have a souvenir of you
And I must write about the brown eyes I no longer wake up to

Why do I write poetry:
Every time you spoke there was a quiet all around while your words etched themselves on my fragile heart
And now there is only chaos left
And I must write to give my heart the silence to reminisce about your voice

Why do I write poetry:
I removed pieces of me to make you a home and now it only aches where my heart should be
And I must write to distract and empty myself of whatever is left

Why do I write poetry:
This is a world where please stay is followed only by a sorry as their response
And I must write because paper never cringes when I confess about my love

Who is to say that "you" is you and "I" is me? Who is to say every penny thrown in a well is to wish for something you don't already have.

I have three empty bullet cases in my pocket and a funny reason for each of them being there.

You look out the window and discover a body floating face down in your pool except you don't have a pool and the body is you. It's me. It's everything that never was.

I am a punch line in search of a set up.

What is it like under your bed? Have I become the monster that lives under it?

My journey to purification began on a night where I pretended like you didn't exist.
I denounced myself a pagan of memories,
turned your forgotten words into forbidden hymns,
embraced them in my mouth before I climbed into bed,
and used them to sing myself to sleep
in all of the hours before I did not dream of you.
It was like burning a house with memories in it,
because you need the ashes to reconstruct a new one.
It was like holding your breath even when you're not in water,
because you have experienced drowning and do not want to risk it again.
I kept on telling myself that this was peace- leaving you was not enough so I had to leave myself as well.
Here is a version of me not at war with you- here is a version that is telling itself nothing has changed even though it is barely existing.
Here is a version moving violently around with nothing to restrict it- here is a version dancing whimsically alone.
Here is a version so small it cannot be stampeded on- here is a version so small it cannot hear its own heartbeat.
Here I am trying to struggle free of you,
Fighting myself so that you don't have a chance to.
But as the days go by,
I am hoping only my cocoon loved you.
And the self- inflicted scars will one day stop belonging to me
And,
belong to some other shell,
restricting the body of,
some other boy.

It is a trial to be free when you are an addict of the prison that held you.
I've been teaching myself about how wrong I am-
That I was not born to make a home out of love,
I am too poignant and sensitive
And cannot belong to anything.
Though the chains may be comfortable,
I need to sacrifice ecstasy so I can find a new lifestyle that is not inspired by their heaviness.
I need to find real fulfillment before it's too late.
Before the chains leave me instead of me leaving them-
Before I'm forced to gallop into any new home I see because I was never prepared enough to be able to stand alone.
I want to forget the way I lived for you,
I want to burn everything without feeling the need to say sorry.
Why must I wait for your forgiveness when everytime I find the urge to reconcile myself,
I'm forced to choke out apologies before I even act on anything.
Why must I lie awake unsure of the future,
Seeing things smaller than you trying to fill a void they won't fit in,
Holding me down so that I cannot be bigger than them.
I know now that I am susceptible to allurement as intensely as a mirror susceptible to light,
Because I am now a reflection of a love I barely experienced.
I stay awake in my sheets every night - praying for my own forgiveness,
Even when I have the ability,
To turn things that don't even hurt me into punishments.

I bear witness to people searching for homes at the end of whiskey bottles and in the beds of someone unknown. Which causes me to wonder:

Where is home?