I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.

I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.

I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.

Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.

The base layer of sediment for my being.

In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.

How could I throw it away?

Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.

I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.

In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.

In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.

I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.

In them I see leaves of growth.

Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.

These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.

They show a person, a being--
A life.

Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.

They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.

Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.

They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.

  dedicated to Rene Magritte *

An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away

An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow

An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine

An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp

An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head

And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.

when you meet someone
who has all the
power in the world
to propel you to
the higher altitudes
you so desperately
wish to reach,
but
you
just won’t let them start
your
propellor.

molly sheeves

His eyes were stars in the night sky,
with constellations swirling as nebulas formed,
a mix of the most beautiful, vibrant colors
that collided with each other,
creating a black hole that ****** me in
and captivating me,
transfixing me into stillness.
A statue.
Those eyes paralyzed me
like the ice his eyes were made of
and the stars that created their beautiful glow.
His lips were like scarlet velvet,
soft, full and perfect.
They kissed me with the utmost gentleness
like they were handling a china doll
and as if I was fragile and breakable,
a glass menagerie.
They curled into a smile so sweet and so genuine
that he made me smile no matter what mood I was in.
His hands were unimaginably gentle.
Callused but smooth;
the hands of a guitarist.
They caressed my cheek ever so lightly,
creating an electric spark where his hand once had touched,
an ever so small electromagnetic field.
His hands held mine,
a perfect fit.
As if they were made only and purely for mine.
Him.
Making my heart stop for a second
or turning my heart into a propellor,
breathing in, out,
in,
out,
so fast I feel dizzy.
His humor, one of a clown,
his kindness, one of a kind.
His cuteness, like a puppy,
and his protectiveness,
a part of him that I am very glad for.
He can make time stand still or speed up
until the days and nights run together,
one after another,
one after another,
so quick...too quick.
He is forever on my mind
like a song stuck on repeat,
a broken record repeating my favorite line
of my all time favorite song.
Like a Black Veil Brides song
that someone won't turn off,
yet I don't mind,
because I like it,
just like I like you.
You are he
and she is me.

truth
i miss you.
you were my breath.
you kissed me,
and it was like
a thousand butterflies
ignited in my chest
and my lungs provided the oxygen
that fed the flame.
your lips
were the wind beneath their wings
the wind beneath mine
i would be lying if i said
that i don't miss
flying.

lie
i hate you.
i never loved you in the first place
the same way that you never loved me.
i want you to feel the same pain
that i have
i want you to know that you are
the throbbing of my head
because i got drunk off of your lips
and i can't ******* escape the hangover
you were a propellor
and i was just a curious fish
who came too close and you destroyed me
i was happiness
and you were depression

truth
you assaulted me.
you ***** me
you tore out my heart
and you spat on it
because you knew how much i hated the feeling
of being worthless.
your head was the hunger
and i was your ******* cigarette
you burned me
and it made you feel good
and as much as i hate to say it
it made me feel good too.
you were addicted to the ash in your throat
i was addicted to the burning of my body
destroyed until i was nothing but your plaything
and i still ******* love you for it.

lie
i regret everything
the i love you's
the i'm sorry's
the hello's
i wish i never let you back into my heart
after you pillaged everything we could have been
i hated it
i hated the way it made me feel
when you waltzed right back in
after you betrayed me
i didn't feel any comfort
i didn't feel anything
but hatred

truth
we were a beautiful calamity
a collision of red and blue and white
blood, sky, and ice
that i saw once you knocked me down
and i couldn't help but stare
at the heart-shaped clouds
and think it was a message
that we needed to stay together
you were my destruction
you were my self hatred
you were my bullet
and i was your ******* blood
coursing excitedly through your heart
as you watched me writhe and die
when my heart gave out
from loving you too much.

Trees once born of fire transformed our god to dust
Fire reaches in and condemns the soul to vapor
vapor twists worlds and creates what we know
Reality is my soul torn apart
love is my opposite
wind is my witness, and embers are my heart.
twilight is my nature and grapevines are my connection.
As the resonance fades eyes are of my storm.
Twisters mimic my infatuation
Earthquakes tremble my fear, and floods flow my true tears.
Diamonds form my being, solid, stagnant and stuck.
Thick sap runs through my veins.
Love is the final frontier, and pain is the ultimate propellor.
Stars scatter and twist and morph until I'm lost.
Pain seems numb but strain is real and stretch and bend and warp.
Drive is crazed and control is mangled as I stare cross eyed at the sun.
As summer dawns and flowers blossom I wade through the abyss
While the depths absorb me, I wonder if ill sink or swim
Pale blue I hold my breath and count the seconds till the storm,
tragedy seems imminent,
hope seems possible,
******* seems worthless,
drugs seem necessary.

The fly lit on a propellor of
a washerwoman whirligig
watched by a whisky sour wino
wearing a scratchy candied wig
he wondered about a wing-ding
under the comeuppance of rain
we struggle that way
you and I...
like ants burdened with twigs
close the door behind you
walk back in

My hands hit the leaves
As I play airplane to the humming noise
Those invisible cars had run me over
Here I am again
I'm spent

Those invisible cars had run me over
For me to grow so much older
I am the flattened out boulder
I am too much of a widow
To be spent (Oh, Lord!)

If I ever had stood there for too long
Maybe they would have shooed me off
Set out my wings and spin my propellor
Become the pilot of my own choices
The head full of voices . . .

. . . And I'm spent