1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i

somehow,
someway
I always end up
doing the things I don't want myself to do
and regret a million things
before finally deciding
to just let it all go
and be a couch potato.
let all the assignments, homework, small little
things be due tomorrow.
it's a magical day where all the stuff
will somehow
someway
get done.
you just have to master the art of
procrastination
and everything will pile up
for tomorrow to make its magic
and finish everything.

Somewhere
someway,
My heart shall embrace
the closeness and warmth of
another being.
Where I can be in awe,
Over the tranquility of her
blessings.
Where I can weave this eternal string of its mystery,
To balance fine lines between us.
Let us travel through
desperate measures,
In search for new ground.
Somewhere
someway,
Love will be an adventure
waiting to explore.
The needs of someone wanting more,
Than just simple affection.

On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.




By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.

we are so different
different beliefs
different hopes
different dreams

but somehow
someway

things feel right
like a key in a lock
like a vow in a prayer

like a fish on a dock
like a lie in a swear

that is until
our differences
become too different

A small boy watched his brother
Happy as could be
One spun and twirled and loved a balloon
It was all he ever did need.
Somehow, someway the balloon popped
Right in his hands
He stopped.
They stood together for a moment
A silent weep shook through
One brother saw the other's tears fall
And knew what to do.
He hugged his shoulder
Picked up the plastic remains
Walked on side by side
Sharing a single pride
For one brother’s burden is both brothers’ fight.

while there at 26 other people present in this room,
i feel alone;
or at least my mind has convinced me that i am.
either way,
it's nice i suppose.
and i can't really focus on anything
but do i really want to?
i could honestly not care less
whether Graph B
is steeper than Graph A
and how it has an equation of -2x-2.
i don't care if it's a
linear
quadratic
exponential
or cubic root equation
all i can seem to care about
at this moment in time
is you
you keep trying to bust your way
into my head
and make a reservation
like i have extra room.
NEWSFLASH:
i don't.
but somehow,
someway,
you have made your way in.
and i don't think you don't plan on leaving.

Walking in the rain...
It refreshes your mind, body and soul to the point that your barriers and walls don't exist anymore.
No one can distinguish tears streaming down your face from rain drops collecting on your cheeks.
But, it makes you remember everything you've been through,
And all the pain rushes back so that you can understand that deep down it was necessary, unknown, but in someway.
Throwing yourself to the ground.
You wish it all away.
Grip you head.
Falling...
There is no more.
Not until the smell of petrichor

okay.
just this once,
i want you to think
back and down and up and left
and remember
right where we left off.
remember the way it was,
the way it could've been.
it sounds like a john mayer song
playing from an iphone underneath a ceiling fan,
sounds like a shower turning on and
two bodies getting to know each other.
it feels like this could be it.
okay.
i just want you to believe that
we could be in love somehow,
someway maybe one day
you'll understand that
i was just trying to touch you
in the softest ways possible.
i just wanted to hear
the sound of your laughter
falling down from your bedroom
and sitting next to me on the couch.
remember the way you kissed me
in that hallmark parking lot,
surrounded by the glow of
your brothers old pickup truck,
remember that. remember how
it was all new and so was i
and so were we and you felt like something
i could get used to.
it was all ****** radio stations and
green lakes and soggy leaves and
remember when you held my hand there,
remember that? you've got to remember that.
think back and
tell me how that felt.
felt like soft rain and
intertwining feet under a snowy white blanket.
i just wanted you to believe i was soft,
wanted you to think i could be good for you
or for anything. okay.
confession. i listen to piano man by billy joel
way more than i should because
i remember you told me
you could play that entire song
on the harmonica.
i'm just jealous i haven't heard it.
okay. remember how i said i loved you too,
well of course i still mean it.
i've never been so honest
in life and in a poem.
you've got this way of making
every moment my favorite.
okay.
i just want you to think back
whenever you need to
and know
that this is it.

Totally useless
Infinite universe
Exploding before us
I am one
I am holy
I am yours
The one and only
Forever and glowing
So steady in stirring
The moving of your heart
Melting your spirit
Confusing what is real
Abusing all you feel
Lie to their faces
Sigh no more
Sink the places
That you have since forgotten
This is a place that I
Will not forget
The holy sighs and cries
During your pitiful lies
All because you set aside
The energy at rest

Hello there

Welcome back
Get this drink
Of A’s exile elixir

Go off to a distant land
Find a distant face


Nothing can be said
I did you wrong
You ****** me over
This is goodbye


......|……|XXXXXXX


Undress
Unleash the emptiness
I’m so glad that I brought this
This beautiful red safe
The keeper of
My ****** up mental state
About my mental state…
Don’t ask me about my holy stake
That I pierced into the heart
Of a special white vampire
One of those holier than thou types
One **** up
And then
Onto the next line
The next word that you speak
Might be a mistake
What do you think?
About me…
Do you think that you could
Stand on your own two feet?
With me,
Without me.
Alone like we are
I’ll crash the car
To flip our worlds around

Venture away today
Go away
Come as you were
Another day
But not today
You might be okay

I’m not okay…





Holy one
Grant me a kiss of happiness
You know I need it
I need her
Whoever she is
Wherever I am
Someway, somehow
I’ll find the day
To rewind the times
That I forgot about
Last night, this morning
Last year, good mourning
Thank you that this is over with. . .

Oh, sweet angel
Lie to me
Allow my words
To feed the hungry minds
of those that don’t listen
and only want my body.

What about what’s left of my spirit
Dragging down below

Sing to those that need
Lie to those that see nothing
Around no quarter
The moon found you
I found you
The numbers did add up
Just a little too soon

All too soon
I found you
I lost you
I’ll find you again

Forget about the end.

Struggling
Somehow, Someway

Struggling each day
To find a job

At least I have my hobbies
And Youtube too

Well life's hard
When you are not able to do what you want to do

I'm not one for complaining
I'm trying to change my situation

I hope to begin my career soon
I am 30 years old

I am living at the end of the American empire
No jobs
And our nation drowns in debt
A sad state of affairs

I use to be like Summer. A burst of brilliant red like when you bite into a perfectly ripe Strawberry. I stained his lips with my sugar-sweet kisses. Like evening’s Cotton Candy sunsets and blushing clouds trimmed with falling golden light, I was your whole sky, morning, evening and night; you marveled at my untouchable beauty, so close but yet so far. I was a Summer storm, rolling thunder and shattering lightning, electricity running through your bones. I was the pitter-pattering rain, tap dancing upon your room, humming you to sleep, every night you saw me in your dreams and always played them back to me. In your sleep you would see me, dancing far away  to somewhere where there was no other-side-of-the-fence, grass was always green wherever my feet touched the earth in between joyful leaps. Where the wind was music in the trees and the grass flowed in fluid motion like dancers caught up in the melody, where the wildflowers bobbed up and down and where the fleeting Robin never left, for there it is always Spring. Yes indeed, I was like wild flowers in mid July, I was the magical meadow tender and warm, hidden away in the pockets of your heart away from the dark, I was a safe haven you happened to stumble upon while fleeing the snapping jaws of the shadow wolves in the Forbidden Forest. Bright and strong like a sunflower, I did not bend in even the most wild wind, and you could lean against me and take in my strength, my untainted, yellow light. Soft and simple but still enough, like a daisy. I made a necklace of my prettiest flowers and hung it around your neck, a most beautiful and delicate daisy chain, my petals kissed and tickled your chest. But I was also vibrant like a Indian Paint Brush, I painted you the prettiest picture, promising passion in streaks of brilliant color, I promised you everything, my roots, my stems, my leaves, my blossoms, everything. And the promise ignited a wildfire within your shivering heart, and spread through your bones, to the black of your eyes, reflecting the fragmented image of me swimming beneath the broken lake’s surface, the white of my skin and the ripple of my hair, you reached into the water blinded, you dug through the sand until you caught me. Oh yes, I was the sunlight dancing on the kaleidoscope forest floor, that you chased trying to catch a handful of light, and I was the fairy circle you wished upon. Yes, I was your Summer.

And as the days grew shorter and the nights became colder I discovered that whenever my mind would wander it would always seem to fall back to you. I remember one night, it must have been in August, the night was pure and honest, and I was caught up in the infinity of the swirling, silver cosmos. My father joined me at my side and pointed up at the sky and showed me the North Star, I had never seen it before. He told me that it was like a compass that would point you home; the lost man’s final hope. Something about that brilliant twinkling star rendered me helpless, I was lost in it’s hypnotizing light. I stared at that star for the rest of the night wonderstruck by it’s beauty and the comforting thought that it knew the way to anywhere you wanted to be. And as the Sun ascended the horizon’s heavenly staircase and peaked in a mirage of smudged pastels for the first time in my life, I felt lost, I felt lost without that star. I all of a sudden had so many questions but no answers, I grasped for sure footing in my jagged thoughts, but was startled to find that you kept popping into my mind, as bright and clear and undeniable as that, stupid, beautiful, bewitching star, and I found myself wondering if somehow, someway, you had become my North Star, the compass that could show my wandering soul the way. And as the world was morphed into view under Daylight’s knowing hands, I realized it was true, you were my last hope, you were going to take me home to a place I didn’t even know, but suddenly was desperately homesick for. And I tried so hard to fall out of alignment with you, to break away from your orbit and run from the galaxy that would soon be us, and the black hole that would **** me up. But I was going up against Gravity, and I was pulled down, down, down.

No matter how I tried, how much I told myself that you were not the only star I could see, that you were not my infinity. But it was futile and somewhere I knew that, I knew that as well as I knew that I wanted you to be my infinity, and I yours. I wanted to create the most beautiful galaxy the Seven Continents had ever seen, so vast and far that no telescope could capture it, and scientists would forever marvel how it came to be. But nowadays, I ask perhaps, If I had known what would happen when the Universe could no longer contain our overpowering glow, what would happen when my North Star exploded? When all I would have left would be memories that would leave a deep scar, but I wouldn’t be able to remember why, leaving me as clueless as I was that first night; when all I would have is whispers that were almost too quiet to hear but would constantly be a murmur in my ear? Have you ever stepped outside and looked up the night sky when the world is asleep and still, but the sky is more alive than you?  Have you ever tried to take a picture to remember the wondrous spectacle Mother Nature and the Heavenly Father have laid out for you? You can try all you want, and use up all the memory on your phone, but no matter what you do, you cannot capture the beauty above you. The pictures if not blurred from your frustrated shaking hands, are simply screens of black, with dots of white that could be dust where stars are supposed to be. And you must walk under those stars, to you they shine so loud and clear, they are right there for God’s sake, but you cannot capture their beauty, you cannot touch them. You must endure the torture of knowing but lacking. And that’s what would happen to me when my North Star exploded into whimsical stardust, when you left me in the pitch black; slowly I am being crushed by the weight of absolute nothingness. And ******, even if I had known this is what would happen to us, that this would happen to me...even if I had known all this to be true, I know I would follow you into that unsure, perilous blue where every man is for himself. Because everything is fair in love and war. And even to this day, over a year later, I would retrace my steps back to that night, and let you destroy my horizon, my faith in 11:11, and belief in shooting stars all over again, if only for a glimpse of you, my darling North Star, Pivoting Axle of my world, my Gravity, my Endless Summer; my Infinity.  

Because soon it became clear that you were my Summer too. You wrapped your loose ends around me and rocked me to sleep in your makeshift cradle like the hammock out back that we used to nap in, do you remember that? You were the pile of books that I whirl through every Summer under the Weeping Willow Tree. You made me smile, you made me laugh, you made me blush and you made me terribly sad. For even then you were my defining phrase and favorite quote that I felt spoke to me the most. You were the birds in the trees singing their fragile hearts out, you told me of Summers past, and how you accidently went backwards and migrated straight into the darkest winter you’d ever seen and couldn’t find your way out of the storm. And that’s why underneath my daisy chain your heart was laced with icy carnations, that’s why your lungs were filled with puffs of smoke that looked like a breath in the biting cold. And that’s why your lips were so ugly, bruised black, purple and blue, proof of what you’ve been through, and every time you tried to explain your torn past, your lips got worse, your skin became terribly chapped, and your voice cracked as you tried to fight back, but the words eventually bled through your lips, so you learned not to speak, because you hated to bleed. But regardless of your cold words and colder shoulder, you were still Summer to me.You were the fireworks on the 4th of July, you lit up the world and were all that I could see, I couldn’t look away, I was afraid to miss a thing. You were the crunch of graham crackers when you bite into a perfect s'more, and you were the laughter when your marshmallow catches on fire.  You were my favorite time of the day, in between night and day, when the sky melts into this glorious turquoise blue, and the silhouette of the pine trees stand out against the fading light. You were quiet and thoughtful, the feeling you get when you sit atop a Ferris Wheel at the the County Fair, you’re a little bit scared, but you can’t help but be blown away by the world below your dangling feet. You were the spike of fear and the adrenaline rush you get when you dive off a cliff into the water, you can’t help but wonder if there are dangerous rocks at the bottom, even though you know it’s too late and there is no stopping your falling body now. But you feel alive, you feel alive and when you survive, you feel unstoppable. That’s the way you made me feel, I was afraid of how much I loved you, how you could tear me apart and push me to the end of the world, and with a brush of your heavy fingertips I would topple over the edge, and I faced the monstrosity of wondering what it would like to be dead, and just before I would let myself go and come to an endless end, you would pull me back up and dust me off, wipe my tears and bandage my bleeding elbows and knees; I was scared that maybe you hurt me just to be the only one who knew what would save me. And I was absolutely terrified of that fact that if that was true, I would still love you. I was scared of you, I was scared of what would happen when Summer came to a end.

I remember I went to California that year for the very first time in my life right before school started. I thought it would be good, to be away from you. I told myself I hoped that you would get bored of waiting for me to come back home and find another girl to give the world, but deep down I knew that I wanted you to wait more than anything. But denial is my thing, as you would soon know all too well, it’s what I do best. So I denied my feelings for you, I denied having any at all. (I still do to this day.) And it was only in California, that I finally realized that I couldn’t keep lying to myself. It happened late at night, as I suppose the most truthful thoughts always do. I couldn’t sleep, I tossed and turned and rolled and stretched but the bed was lumpy and the sheets were suffocating and I found myself slipping away,  tiptoeing across the squeaking floor and squeezing out of the heavy wood door, into the fog and sea salt air. I walked for a very long time. I think when people are near the ocean, and have sins they have to wash from their bloodstained palms, they find a friend in the Ocean, someone to hold their hand and teach them how to stand and walk upon water. And that night, I glided to the ocean like a ghost whose tables had been turned and broken, and now finds itself the the haunted one with blistering splinters that it can not see, left over from a world that could not be; made up of broken promises, what if’s and missed moments they can never get back. The Ocean’s magnitude overwhelmed me and neutralized the quiet chaos bubbling beneath my skin. The rabid froth and spit of crashing waves put out the fire that was eating away at me and the undertow pulled me into the blue. I floated through the undefined blur of the the aqua world. I ran my hands through the rocky sand and felt the urgent weight and staggering cold of the water pulling me under, but risking my life in that current among the frothing foam horses racing against the Moon’s tide made me feel so alive. I am no mermaid, I cannot breathe underwater, but for the first time in seemingly forever I had air in my collapsing lungs, and I didn’t know you could drown on dry land until I was dying in the sea. But it was not my time, and I awoke washed up on the scraping sand with water in my ringing ears, knotted hair and no feeling in my blue fingers. I sat there on the diamond sand for a long time until I was strong enough again to lift my arm and slowly I reached into the sky, and grabbed my North Star and pulled it into my heart and where it glowed, I scrubbed myself clean of my history and orthodox scriptures with the salt of the sea and was born again free of frown lines. Something about the Ocean brings clarity, and yes it is dangerous and chaotic, it could destroy the world and wipe us all away, leaving not a trace of the human race, but the Ocean is a lifeboat, a saviour of many in a way. When you find yourself faced with a whole new infinity, a horizon that only ends when it meets another, you are small, and you are still. You are pinned against your past but then can remember how to breathe again, you exhale the toxic smoke swirling in your lungs and inhale the mist. Exhale the past, inhale the future, breathe child-for you are here, no longer there. You are small and you are still but you are real. And that night I learned two of Life’s endless lessons. First; People love what kills them. Faced with death you are flooded with life, it ignites your brittle bones and breathes music back into the silent calamity of your echoing heart. People love what kills them. Second; the person you think of when you stand in front of the ocean. That’s the person you’re in love with. And I thought of you, you, you. I thought of you and I never stopped. And it’s killing me.  

But I knew something but really nothing of death back then. So when I got home a week before school I asked if we could meet somewhere in between. And we did. Beneath glaring flick of fluorescent lights in the gas station’s parking lot that didn’t stay any open later than ten, surrounded by everything ugly about humans, rusty pennies, tumbling plastic bags, stomped out cigarette butts and smashed beer cans, you held my hands and kissed me for the very first time, and suddenly, the world was beautiful. We walked hand in hand for the longest time, but found ourselves just a block past the lonely parking lot, by the town’s fountain. We sat there and splashed out feet in the ***** water enjoying the feeling of being. You had brought a bag of Skittles and sorted the red ones from the rest, and when I asked why with a laugh you sheepishly admitted you remembered that I thought that the red ones were the best and that the lemons made my face wrinkle and nose tickle. I poked fun at you for remembering something that silly, but truthfully it meant the world to me, because it meant someone out there was listening to even the simplest things I had to say. And in the fluid reflection of those pool lights rippling across your perfect face, I could tell that even though that pitiful fountain was no ocean, that you were thinking only of me. That night we shot ourselves into the dark like shooting stars and fell into each other, that fateful night was the night we became each other’s North Star. But in the end, no one knows where that star is taking them, they call it a lost man’s compass and the last hope, but if he is lost is his compass not broken, or else wouldn’t he be home? Is hope then of no use? Are North Stars just poetry to salvage doomed souls? I often wonder if, regardless of our faith in each other’s sense of direction, if that night was the most we ever knew each other.

You told me you loved Cheezits, and Lucky Charms with Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. You admitted that you chewed your nails to tiny stubs when you felt to much because all you ever wanted to be was numb. You confessed that you had trouble looking at your dad the same and saying,”I love you,” to your mom and tried to explain why video games were any fun. I pointed out all the scars on my legs and how I got them, whether it was from tearing through my childhood neighborhood on my Barbie tricycle or if it was from running over gravel trying to outrun myself and everything evil that clung to me. I muttered between my  hands and embarrassed giggles why I was terrified of fish and flies, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. I recalled for the first time the night mom died and everything that followed that night, awful night that never seemed to end, and with a quivering bottom lip counted off everything th

1) At age 8 you realize that someone you look up to might not be the angel they pretend to be. Sometimes you’ll have to hide in your closet, crying, because you can’t stand to hear his yelling anymore. Your sister will hold your hand and sing you lullabies as you fall asleep to your father repeatedly pushing his girlfriend into a wall.

2) At age 9 you find out that blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood. Just because someone isn’t your family, it doesn’t mean that they won’t love you the same. And when that person leaves, it will never be a final goodbye, even when the thought of your father brings tears to their eyes.

3) At age 10 you learn that no matter the age, children can be evil. They’ll put gum in your hair and push you down on the playground, just because you enjoy reading. When you come home crying to your mother, she’ll squeeze you tight and whisper “You’ll show them one day, my darling”.

4) At age 11 you come to the conclusion that women are very beautiful and have soft lips. You’re scared to admit it at first, but love is love is love. When your stepdad catches you kissing your best friend, he’ll forbid you from seeing her. But nothing will be able to stop you from realizing who you are and what you like.

5) At age 12 you’ll understand that leaving everything you’ve known can be the hardest thing to do. You’ll scream and cry and punch walls when your parents tell you that you are switching schools. You’ll lock yourself in your room and throw things to the floor, telling them how much you hate them and praying that somehow, someway, they will change their minds.

6) At age 13 you’ll understand that leaving everything you’ve known can be the best thing to happen to you. Despite people making fun of you for being the new girl with the funky haircut, you find a group of people who just get you and pull you out of your shell. You’ll start acting and singing and spend your weekends at the beach with some of the greatest people you’ll ever meet. You’ll find yourself for the first time in your life.

7) At age 14 you meet the man who will change your life forever. Your friends are his friends and you love the feeling of falling asleep on his shoulder. People tell you how much he loves you, he tells you how much he loves you, and you finally feel the sort of completeness you’ve been searching for since your father left you.

8) At age 15 you see the devil for the first time in someone who tells you that you are the love of their life. When he pushes you to the ground, you can’t help but think of when you were 8. You’ll fight and breakup and kiss and makeup, an endless cycle that’ll leave you completely drained. But after the third hospital visit in a year, and a night with him that leaves you scared of people ever touching you romantically, you find the courage to leave him for good. No man is with worth the anguish and heartbreak and hatred.

9) At age 16 you learn how to find yourself again. You cut your hair, join the cheerleading team, and toss all the toxic people out of your life. You let yourself try new things and experience a life without the grip of a malicious man holding you down.

10) At age 16 you’ll also learn how devastating loss can be. A wall of blackness will drown you in class when the principal tells you your friend is gone for good. You’ll blame yourself for not being there when he needed you and you’ll blame yourself for never recognizing how much trouble he was actually in. At the funeral, you tell his brother and father and mother you’re sorry and even though you’re not crying (because you haven’t shed a tear since your ex retched your innocence from you) you truly mean it. His voice will always be in your head and you’ll see him everywhere you go. You’ll learn that great men will forever live on.

11) At age 17 you learn the meaning of true friendship. It can come in any shape, size or form. It’ll come in the social studies teacher who taught you what it means to be independent and enjoy it. It’ll come in the friend you’ve had since 7th grade but never realized was your soulmate and best friend until you spend an entire month traveling together. It’ll even come in the stupid grey and white cat your family got after the previous one died (at least this one will fall asleep next to you).

12) You’re 18 years old now and things aren’t always the best. Some days are worse than the others and you feel like giving up completely. But you relish in the fact that you are getting an education at your number one school and have found a group of people who make you feel at home even though you’re 7 hours away. You never thought you’d make it this far; never believed that you had it in you to get away after years of begging to do so. Every trial and tribulation has helped you become who you are today. Every tear, every smile, every experience has led you to this exact moment. Take advantage of this beautiful privilege and never lose sight of what you want. You are a powerful woman who doesn’t need a man to help her believe this. You will do great things, just keep your head high and always remember the little island and people that helped raise you.

Some people think that as an
Adult
I can be a tad rough
Rock solid skin
But as a
Child
I was exponentially
Worse

Kicked
Screamed
Cried
Teased
Scratched

A walking terror
My father deemed me
"Crab-Apple Lynn"


The neighbors would
Whisper
Of that horrid five-year-old
Girl
That would push and
Tackle
The boys down the street

And on the night
That I kicked my
Brother's friend in the
Groin
And he tumbled
Down the stairs
Word spread like
Wildfire
That Crab-Apple
Had struck again

Notorious bully
Walking with balled fists
Kicking over Lincoln Logs
Smashing Play-Doh sculptures
Sneezing purposefully
Spewing out green phlegm
And wiping the boogers
On fellow peers
Half-grinning
At their cries

Feared by all
But respect
Was the one thing
The miniature version of
Me
Could not earn

And despite my youth
Despite the over-sized chip on my shoulder
Tiny me
Found a way
To flip around
Turn a leaf
Turn a page
Turn a head

Completely change
Altogether

And suddenly
Crab-Apple disappeared
And Sarah grew in
View

It was as though
Somehow, someway
The little me knew that

Fear is worthless

I hate you.
I hate so many things about you i cannot recall a single word in my vocabulary that can even begin to grasp the amount of hatred i have for you.
I hate the way you walk. The way you talk. The way you dress I hate all of it. Why? Let me explain.

I hate the way you walk. The way your body sulks forward as if the entire world was on your shoulders and not a soul on this planet would lift even a finger to help carry your burdens.

I hate the way you talk. Not about others but about yourself. The way the pain in your words seems to seep out even as you try to mask it with the I'm alright or I'll be fine.

I hate the way you dress. How beautiful your clothes look on you. How every shade of green blue and red seem to be just enough to hide all the little bits of insecurity you harbour underneath. I hate how much time you put into shopping for clothes, thinking about how gorgeous the material is. The softness of the fabric. Thinking that while you wear such amazing, stunning clothing, the body beneath is will never be enough for anyone. Never be enough for you. I hate the way you dress because every piece of clothing you buy, you don’t buy to accent you. You buy it as armour to shield away your beautiful heart that you think is ugly.

I hate your eyes. The way every time I stare at them I see someone who's lost all hope. I hate the way you look into the world as if it was made of black and white. I hate that I have the unfortunate privilege to stare into the eyes of one so broken and so blind to the beauty that is you.

I hate your lips. I hate the way they seem to curve down at the edges, as if any semblance of happiness has been ****** out of your once beautiful shining lips. I hate how every time I look at them I'm reminded that your blind eyes don't realize that those lips are the missing puzzle piece to someone else's.

I hate your ears. Yes. Even your ears. I hate how every time someone speaks to you all you hear are your mistakes. I hate how your ears mangle and twist words of praise and love into indistinguishable words that amount to nothing more than babble or a language unbeknownst to you.

I hate your smile. I hate the way your teeth shine perfectly in the light but your eyes betray that smile as fake. I hate how your smile never conveys a true happiness. I hate how your smile though so beautiful at face value, has never comes from the bottom of your heart.

I hate your laugh I hate how even when you laugh, the forcefulness of your laugh is subtle, but to me its existence is as obvious as a red smudge on a white shirt. I hear it. Every time. You think nobody hears it, but i hear the pain in your laugh.

I hate your body. I hate the way your body curves. How every hair and every odd mark on your skin is suddenly a sin that needs to be atoned for. I hate how your body is so beautiful and perfect the way that it is, and I hate how even if you want to change it, you never find the courage to even though you're highly capable of it.

I hate your hands. I hate how when you look into your hands even if they may be small or big, you truly believe that nobody on this Earth would dare hold them. That somehow, someway you've contracted some sort of disease that has made your hands untouchable to anyone else. That just like your lips you truly believe nobody would dare lock their hands in yours.

I hate you. I hate how beautiful you are. I hate how you can't see it. I hate your loneliness. I hate how every day I need to watch as little bits of you float away and dissolve into nothing. I hate that I ultimately can't do anything for you to make you see any of this. I hate how all I can do is write this stupid poem at 3 17 in the morning and hope and pray that by some ******* miracle maybe I can ignite some sort of light in your heart. That maybe for a second, just one second, you can look away from this poem and realize one color in your black and white world. Maybe you realize the blue of your wall. Maybe you realize the color of your skin. Maybe you realize the green of the grass outside.
Maybe you realize the small pond of blue in an endless horizon of grey clouds.

Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you hate yourself so much.
Maybe in the end I hate you so much because you don't believe

How much I love you.

Think upon the present in the present moment, but think positively.

In all perspectives of life,
it’s important,
not only to have a positive attitude,
but more importantly to keep trending the positive way of thinking,
not only trending, but also to adhere and follow upon the same.

In one way or other, in someway make it a habit to think positively.

Give your best in the job that you have,
but in doing so never give up your positive thinking,
then if it means to reinitiate the thought process,
definitely do it,
however, always keep in mind,
think positively.

Sooner or later,
definitely at some point in time,
somewhere around the corner,
a moment in time will come when you will realize and understand the power of positive thinking.

Till then,
keep going,
don't give up in the job that you have,
but make sure that you follow positive thinking,
since it's a boon and helps in the long run.

So keeping aside short term gains and lure for the same make it a habit, follow the same,
think, but think positively.

I Felt●

How
You curled
Your hands from the heights

Did instigate●

I
Felt
I could fly and catch your smiles
I felt I could fly but to that mile
Just like the kites●

In
Endless fantasies
I clench myself like colourful crayons●

But
Someway,somehow
I felt each had a riven beak
And foil me
To print the picture of these delusions
So bright●

Now
I feel am right,and myself
Waving back to the same heights●

I Felt●

©Historian E.Lexano

People in essence are spiderwebs

Each so fragile and beautiful

Yet so strong and full of purpose

Each molecule is connected by a strand of the web

Each thought intersected

Woven into another

Yet separate, unique

There are no two alike

Though many are bland

So distasteful

Never living out their full potential

Instead being destroyed by tiny things

The fears and doubts that eat away at the delicate strands



Still someway somehow the rare few so complicated

Protected so carefully by their creators

Manage to hold their true form

Even for a second in time

They capture drops of inspiration like dew

As the sunlight fades the useless webs left unprotected

It also catches hold of the glimmer of inspiration

Suddenly transformed into a shining brilliant treasure

The web can maintain these inspirations

Build them into anything they desire

Or they may allow them to simply lay in shadow

Weighing them down

Until they come crashing from their position of glory

To a simple puddle of ruin

I have to run
It's who I am
Need to break away
To another land
It's never enough
I always come home
Feelng good for a day
Then back to alone
I don't know how to stop
I must get away
I hope to find what I'm looking for
Somehow, someway

If you don't like prom
You make anti-prom
The "stick it to the man" statement
But in that statement
There is a silent note
It could be that you wanted to go
But couldn't
Wanted to be asked or ask
But wouldn't
Felt a longing to see it
But were too scared
Anti-prom makes a statement
Not always the one you want
When you label anti-prom
You somehow label yourself
If you just don't like the prom
And honestly don't care
You wouldn't feel the need
To stage an anti-prom
You just wouldn't go
Or maybe just had a party
Not saying it was anti-prom
Just having your friends over
Anti-prom is a silly cliche
That tell the world
"The prom hurt me in someway"
Though I am tempted to stage an anti-prom
I know the statement I'm making
I'm saying
"I'm a little too scared to go to prom"
I admit it
I do
Anti-prom
The biggest cliche
Next to the prom itself