...and now I just feel guilty....

All your best relief efforts will, to your surprise, save me.

But you seem to think at excommunicating me will help.

Did abandoning the Titanic as it sunk beneath the glassy, ice ridden waves save many lives?

Does leaving a lonely girl alone help her overcome her constant state of isolation?

I'm not asking for a life raft, a canoe, or a power boat.

All I'm asking for is your hand.

The strawberry drizzle
Sat among the mildewed stars
And wondered what exactly
It was doing, what business it had
Fraternizing with the upper crust
Who were more sour than she

Tell me a tale of the sparkling seas
full of odd riches and timidity,
covered in lives lost with nary a thought,
stained with the coral-bound lessons you've taught.

Weave me an epic of the gold-crusted clouds
that filter through air and make not one spare sound,
filled with the voices of chanting young boys,
and all of the most heavenly ilk of noise.

Spin me a story of leaves green and pure
which drift toward the heavens with sensory ores,
that make for the sky as they stretch emerald-tall
before the time comes when they just have to fall.

Reasons for having life;
keeping it, giving it, sustaining it;
glitter speckles around the shell
of a protective covering that breaks only
when tears splatter around the vortex
that is the human heart.

And building it up?
Naught is easier than the
gradual accumulation of
galactic residue that can
keep, give, sustain
the heart;
and the eyes?
and the ears?
and what of the soul?

Protection is not found in years
or the ticking of an idle clock
who's days in the attic number
far higher than the minutes
of eternity counted by Zeus;

No, it is a given, taken element
which lives fast upon the air
that wheezes through stars,
squeezes past arguments,
and opens eyes.

Forever.

I may have puppet strings
Attached to my bronzed shoulders
Controlling the movements of my hands and heart
But even then, I know how to control
The beating of the cords
Within my star spangled throat

Star studded binders
Dot a Peloponnesus dominated
Landscape
And slowly- slowly-
The jersey lilted land
Uncovers it's treasure

Sparkling crows alight
on a glass bridge
over the running quicksilver
that swallows the
jaded emerald demons;
and yet the igneous townspeople
in their wheaten shanties
are not safe.

Just when the peep toed bear
tip toes past the sleeping yellow jackets
that stole their gold from the Sun's caverns;
Just when the cross eyed birds
sweat across the blooming icebergs
that hold insanities from the lost souls of underworlds;
Just when a tiger pounces
on a large gaping shadow
that can never be picked up by hands of man;
We will be free

If more cataracts consisted
Of that gel like substance
Flowing with honey and sparkles
Like the ones that alight in her hair
Especially when I hear that silver screened laugh
The world would ultimately be
A much better place

Just thinking of the emerald
stained optics that attend
the seminars behind the red curtains
that close over his eyes
make the lace-structured legs beneath me
want to give out

Her moonlit fingertips grace
the snowy wetness of the strawberry bush
as it waits silently for
a melancholy song
in the form of torn skin and blue blood
to grace its' leaves

The fluttering purple bejeweled wings
Spanned in diamonds from ogre's rings
Make her heart and her mind start to sing
When his presence is felt in a room

The wings of the sow, they bled with tire
and wear and love that did perspire
in bold red beads across her back
where feathered things did slake and slack.

But fly she wouldn't, for fear of life
and judging, based on that stereotype.
So if you chance to see her now,
she'll be naught but a flightless sow.

is it stress?
is it life?
is it trauma?

aches, all over
hurt, all inside
pain, all over
heart, all but died

what's the source?
what's the plan?
what's the use?

I didn't know what to do with it, I guess I was just driving aimlessly; no signs, no lines, no lights to tell me when to stop. And when I finally broke down in everyone's way...you were there. You were the distraction I needed. I fell for an idea, a legend, a figment. I crashed down hard and didn't know right from left; yet left to my own devices, I could feel one aspect remained-the protection. Your words captivated me like the scent of an autumn breeze after a long hot summer, forming a protective shield around me, a thicket paragraphs deep. I fell for a distraction...you fell for a lost traveler. How can we distinguish one feeling from another when our very beings are tangled up in this mass of rhyme we have spewed forth? Silver words falling from bejeweled tongues clash together in a blend of titanic proportions, and we are one. All we need is closer, closer, and soon the joined words come from inseprable lips; did Shakespeare know? Had he the experience, the awe, the losses? How could he compare praying hands to bounden lips if he didn't? We are the new Shakespeare; we write our own story with our enjoined hands, entangled legs. Our fingers meshed together spell out what our tongues cannot. We write our own love story, forging through the trouble that is past and the fear that is to come. They say actions speak louder than words, that an image is worth ten thousand words. Well, whoever they were....they were right.

I didn't know what to do with it, I guess I was just driving aimlessly; no signs, no lines, no lights to tell me when to stop. And when I finally broke down in everyone's way...you were there. You were the distraction I needed. I fell for an idea, a legend, a figment. I crashed down hard and didn't know right from left; yet left to my own devices, I could feel one aspect remained-the protection. Your words captivated me like the scent of an autumn breeze after a long hot summer, forming a protective shield around me, a thicket paragraphs deep. I fell for a distraction...you fell for a lost traveler. How can we distinguish one feeling from another when our very beings are tangled up in this mass of rhyme we have spewed forth? Silver words falling from bejeweled tongues clash together in a blend of titanic proportions, and we are one. All we need is closer, closer, and soon the joined words come from inseparable lips; did Shakespeare know? Had he the experience, the awe, the losses? How could he compare praying hands to bounden lips if he didn't? We are the new Shakespeare; we write our own story with our enjoined hands, entangled legs. Our fingers meshed together spell out what our tongues cannot. We write our own love story, forging through the trouble that is past and the fear that is to come. They say actions speak louder than words, that an image is worth ten thousand words. Well, whoever they were....they were right.

You get
a degree for remembering,
and all you had to do
was pass a test about
Abe Lincoln
and the Zhou Dynasty.

A degree for remembering;
you claim, "It's my major."
You pore over books that explain Henry VIII's malice;
you want a degree for remembering.

What sweeter sound is there to your ears
than the utterance of an educated reference
to the history of our forefathers?
A degree for remembering
will grant you that satisfaction.

History majors.
College American History professors.
Degrees for remembering.
Think...and understand.

I have been in an Adele sort of mood lately....

It's like a leech
It clings to every memory I own, it infiltrates all my senses

I see his face everywhere in the faces of strangers

I hear his final words to me through the sigh he gave as I told him I wished we could have worked, that he should keep me in mind should he change his

I smell him every time I sit at my piano and think of the times we spent poring over Faure and wishing the recital were over

I touch him every time the white keys glide under my skin and the black ones poke my fingers into submission

I taste him on the tip of my tongue as I try in vain to forget the past

He was my train wreck and thinking of him makes me hate myself, what he hated, what he told me he wanted and then told me he would never want in a million years.

So I pushed him to the back of my head,
But his afterlove
Just clings
To my heart
Instead.

I've paddled off into
my
own
s e a

of nostalgia

longing for my childhood
and darling friends
whom I've left behind
in the
u. r. n
c. r. e. t
of m e m o r y

reconnecting
two hours?

is enough for me
to feel slightly
more WhOlE
than I had before

what I have
what I need
is air.

He changes his name
again and again

to love the rain and the life
he left behind

He changes his name
over and over

to stop the hurt and the feeling
he feels every day

But most importantly, he changes his name
constantly

to block the love and hide from the glare
the world gives off

To know with a full heart
that he loves you
in return

When the butterfly has flown the lily graced flower
That has been the family home for generations upon generations,
Whose petals have protected against mites for decades;
When she has left with no intention of looking back over one jaded ruby wing
To reminisce upon all she's leaving behind
Between the silken walls of her childhood home;
That's when the community begins to judge her.

Scarlet wings gallantly breezing through the air with nary an effort, she glides above the rest, destination unknown.
Laughs, sneers, jeers, and scorn rise from the ground below her gravitating form like smoke from a house fire.

~She's afraid of her past.

~Her family must have disowned her.

~It's her own fault, anyways.

High above them, she still hears everything, but pretends not to. After all, life will soon be her oyster, far away from this place.

Far away from the crowds of rude sociality that insist upon knowing every last detail about her life and pursuits, morphing her most sacred details into gossip fit for the common lunch table at the Meadowlands Cafe.

Far away from the friends who helped her grow until she realized her wings were too large and beautiful to hide or fit within the confines of this dulling, lifeless community.

And far, far, far away from the smoldering smoke that emanated from the last tulip at the Far East side of the community, the burning of leaf and petal that had prompted her leaving once and for all.

Scarlet like her wings, her past has gone up in flames. Soon, the butterfly is past the scorning and pointing of fingers and into the wild unknown. Only here does she bite her lip and look back, against her better judgement. And then she smiles.

All that's left of her past is a cloud of bad memories mixed with the haze of gossip and the smoke from a home that never felt like it was her own.

So she pushed on. Scarlet flutters through turquoise until she disappears, a red blob on the hazy horizon.

She has overcome. And she is free.

I almost said it.

But it wouldn't have been saying it.

Why am I such a coward......

No pressure?

The life he had lost to which he paid great heed
Never rewarded him for nary a deed.
Yet recompense was not so easily found
Once his body was safe in the ground.

His mother had died and his sister, ruined
Hi father had left, his brother knew it
Knew he was going, and fast, he was
His beloved brother would soon sleep in the mud.

Yet life is not life when it facades as art
And stolen good surmise more than of just hearts
His lover had left him with no single weep
And left him to lay in his awkward still sleep.

So death did them part, but not them prevail
Life had been gone before his last final wail
The dead in his eyes had shone many years
And only did dull when confronted by fears.

Heed my words, you shepherds, you sheep
Take not the time to make tears for to weep
For we are all dead, or soon as will be
Inside, at least, where no one else may see.

I can no more weave words
than an arthritic spider.

All I do is open my fingertips
and let loose the emotions too powerful
to let out of my mouth
in hopes that they aren't sullied by the printed letter.

How is this silver?

I do wish someone would tell me
what effect,
to what extent,
my words
can inspire
love

and oh, if only that love
were in the eyes
of the muse

am i the only one who routinely checks to see if you've come back
to see if perhaps that was all a two year long nightmare and everything is okay?
i hope not but i know so.

Lace your words through my fingertips
You’ve got to tie me down somehow

And the shadows danced on the walls that night
and the obscurities all ran free
and the solsticed pure gold ran through all their veins
and their hearts, full of unbounded glee

And the demons danced hard
and the angels sang loud
and the grave diggers crooned with the light of death
and the machines stood tall and proud

And the life glimmered short
and the death died threefold
and the love in her throat did choke her ideals
and stories unspoken were told

And the yews all did spy
and the night tables, play
and the lovers all screamed with force of the wind
and the scaly eyed pecans died that day

And alone in the corner sat
and with not a care in the world
and with the weight of my friends atop my broad shoulders
and i died as my stress did unfurl

And I bled unfiltered light
and I cried from the start
and I made sure my friends would never feel that feeling
and I let them destroy my heart.

I hope you know I trusted you.
That I told you things I couldn't trust my own mother with.
That i bared my soul to you because I felt like no one else understood but you.
How wrong was I....
It may be low to do some of the things I've done, but I'll admit I've done them and own up to it.
But to put up a front and a pretense of friendship just to get information to someone trying to hurt me...
saying you wanted to wait till later to tell me how much of a ***** i was?
That's just an excuse for wanting to learn more about me to hurt me later.
If you had truly been my friend, you would have told me what was bothering you/
wow.
now that is low.

Everyone calls me a hurtful, deceitful manipulator.
The problem is, it's really hard to fix a problem with roots unknown to your own mind.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. And everyone else is too ******* and vengeful to help me understand.
So fine.
Manipulate me in return for my unrecognized "manipulation".
It doesn't count if it's revenge, does it?

Dear no one, this is your love song*

I may not be the prettiest
or the smartest
or the most eloquent
or the most accomplished

and that's all

One for the girl who doesn't want it

Two for the boy who does

Three for the man who shuns it and scorns it

Four for the grandma who knits

Five for the uncle who's ma's disappointment

Six for the burdened mother

Seven for the cousin who's the runt of the litter

Eight for the sister who's drowned in a shadow

Nine for the godmother whose hands are *******

And Ten.

TEN.

For the boy who happens to make my heart sing

and ten more for the boy

who has angel wings.

wary wary wary
weary weary weary

what, is there a difference?

I killed a man with my bare fingers
his blood like satin
seeping through my jeweled nails

I bit the beating heart of a diamond
whose only wish was
to be loved like her mother never was

I cut open the heart strings
of a forlorn cello
battle worn from the field of shining lights

I made love to the curtains hanging over
your ice sharded chandelier
hoping the heat would cool my soul

Hey, handsome.
I can't top the sweetness you left me, but I can try.
Do you know how big of an impact you've made on me?
Sit there a moment.
Reflect.
In the past two days I've felt more alive than ever.
As you stretch slightly and the corners of your mouth turn upwards in concentration, think of me.
Think of how it felt when you first saw my face.
And save that reaction.
Is it ludacris to want to end this note with 'I love you?'
I rest my case.
-Hannah

Just go away
Leave me

Surrounded by a thousand people
Who love my family
And who love me
I feel more alone than ever

So just leave
It's better that way
For you
At least

And I always thought it was funny
That the first letters in “hello”
Spell “hell”

I introduced the birds to the flock
the dove was awkward, the sparrow, excited

but the falcon towered
and the partridge left
and the starling was left to cry
with the eagle just standing by

and who, you ask, who, who am I?

I am the flamingo.
Do I belong?
Not I.

is where all the ropes swing free
from the willow branches
with no inhabitants to wish them
a steady tugging downwards into
the grass and magma flowing below

Mama always says that you are
what other people think of you,
how you present yourself to
each and every acquaintance.
The way people see you,
even if it isn't how you meant for
them to see you,
is who you are.

A monster.
An object of hatred.
A manipulator.
An abuser.

Though I can be told by few
that I am good for recognizing
my mistakes and my flaws,
does the good outweigh the
bad within myself?

I kept warning you not to
get too close to me.
I knew you wouldn't like
what you would see.

I am not an artist but art,
and from the world-- set apart;
in life and love, the push and shove
wreaks havoc on my painted heart.

If I was a painter, you know what I'd do?
I'd paint what I feel every time I'm with you.

In beautiful shades of grey and blue
Would be the scenes that are lacking you.

Down
          Down
                     dOwn
                                   doWn
                                                doWn


















.......wish I could ask for help from down here.....






But I'm not an attention seeker.

Just a groundling.....

paragraphs
sentences
words

things that describe me
and my worth
and my meaning

one day perhaps i'll be told just what those
paragraphs
sentence
and words
are

but until then
i get the attention
i deserve.

And I'll tell you
Who you really are
To me

i never realized how hard it would be to write
when i am being asked to
words flow like water when i'm writing for me
but unfortunately for her,
now they're moving like mud
sorry if my poetry seems messy?