If you caught me,
would you
set me free?

Tell me something
I have not heard before,
you irrelevant person.

Maybe I will
actually
believe you.

Otherwise,
close your mouth,
and choke on your
criticizing words.

These words come alive
when I can not.
They breathe air
when I am suffocating.
They heal me
when I am bleeding.
They give me hope
when I no longer
believe.

He took a photograph

for her

Of a wall under

a beautiful bridge.

And on that wall

was written

"We're all being used;

We just don't know it."

I see you
trapped in your
self destructive
actions,
unaware.

I am running,
but I can not
reach you.

I see a tear
roll down your
cheek,
hurt,
from the inside out.

I am screaming
but you can not
hear my words.

I see you
shrinking,
pulling your knees
in close
to your chest.

I am still running,
trying to reach you,
desperate to hold you,
desperate to mend
your deep wounds.

How could someone
step on and crush
such a
rare and beautiful
flower?

You are not alone,
you are not gone,
you are not over.

What I would do
to give you back
that night.

I am running,
screaming,
hurting for you.

I finally reach you,
and pick up your pieces.

I will put you back together,
because that is what we
have always done:

Put each other back together
after the world has damaged us.

I could offer you messy ink on loose leaf. I could give you some beautiful words. Would you feel my tone? There's nothing I wouldn't do, to write how I truly feel for you.

I can make all your dreams come true,
 and then accidentally rip it right out from under you.
   I am sorry you love a girl
      with a bruised heart,
         especially since most of the
              black and blues
                 I have done all on my own.
                    No one to blame,
                        No where to hide.
                           Run before
                  I bruise your heart too.
                 But believe me when i say,
                 I did love you.

He tookher to a place up in the mountains.
She didnt think of you as he took the curves at 90 miles per hour.
He parked the car and opened her door.
She didn't think of you as they walked up the road in darkness.
He led her to the edge of the dropp off and they sat on the stonewall ledge.
She didn't think of you as he pointed out the city skyline.
She didn't think of you as she stared at the dist horizon, lit up by the lights speckled across the land.
She didn't think of you as the cool breeze draped a shawl over her shoulds.
But as she gazed up at that big ol' moon,
She thought of you.
Yes, she thought of you.
She looked at the fading stars, the orange harvest moon, and the empty darkn ight.
Would it have looked as empty if you were here?
She wondered.
She liked the thought that miles away, you were looking at the same sky.
Maybe even thinking of her.
He grabbed her hand and led her back to his car.
She was still thinking of you.
The thoughts of you fled her mind as he raced down the mountain,
taking the curves at 90 miles per hour.
The thoughts of you faded in her mind,
finding company with the memories of mid summer nights.

I think I might start working on my first novel soon.

It is getting hard to breathe,
always trying to impress,
No one said it would be easy,
but God, I am such a mess.

It is getting hard to breathe.
Smeared makeup below my eyes,
Believe me when I tell you this:
I am made up of truths and lies.

A fumbling mess
always does best
when she sits on the couch and reads.

Sometimes,
it is tiring to
love you so
much.

Sometimes,
you drain so
much from
me.

Other times,
you breathe
life into me.

hate is nothing but a passion misplaced.

I'm stuck in this mental asylum,
suffocating at the thought of reality,
I can not escape,
I am crying at the gates.
I am tearing at my skin,
trying to get out,
longing for a breath.

My skin is chilled
in the morgue,

but I am not dead yet,
no I am not dead yet.

This is an ode to my past,
and ode to my last,
an ode to my love,
and the one I did not reach in time.

"I am alone in the world; let me suffer, I can bear it."

-The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain.

smudged ink across her face
she stares into the eyes
of the girl in the mirror
her pupils enlargen

and she shrinks.

here I go again,
thrusting myself into
emotional catastrophe,


just to know what is is like
to feel.

i am allowed to be;

a boy once told me "you aren't allowed to be."
unproper grammar,
you should always finish sentences like such
with an adjective.

he meant to say
"you arent allowed to be in a bad mood."
but he told me
"you aren't allowed to be."
unproper.

because

i am allowed to be.
i am allowed to be existent.
i am allowed to be any adjective.
i am allowed to be.

being sounds rather fine today,
i would like to be.
i am being.
i am a being.

i am a being full of breath,
full of laughter,
full of emotions,
of anger,
of silence,
of thoughts,
of words
of actions.

and that,
is being.

why is it so hard for me to let things be okay?

she knows its always her own damn fault;

broken glass shatters on the floor
but he keeps going
as he heads for the door.

hes tired of her insanity
done with her frusterations
leaving a young mess of a girl behind.

a mess whose been left before,
he glances back at her tearing eyes,
and suddenly he's running back for more.

give me one more moment in this starry night;

can we not see the end is here?
endings are so lonely,
goodbye.

can we not see new beginnings?
fresh and here yet again,
hello.

a mix of letting go and
getting a second chance,
bittersweet.

but we will always miss these years
and new starts never mattered.
so dont go,
moments.

let me carry your burdens;

& sometimes,
there's nothing
more to say
other than
today has left us,
all too soon,
leaving us in the prescence
of conquering
of learning
of growing
of failing
of grasping
of letting go
of becoming one;
so we will sit
staring into the
cloak of night,
and await
tomorrow
in the company of
the light of the
moon,
to be shortly followed
by colors and hues
of tomorrow's
unpredictibility.
so we wait.

infected, neglected, changed.

hush your mouth,
quit your words,
stop your thoughts,
fade,
fade,
fade away,
into your pretty picture.
let me pretend
for a few moments,
no one exists,
just me.
i see the earth
my pretty earth,
light up,
lets chase it.
and forget
forget
forget it all,
except me.
and all that is beautiful,
in my painting.

abundance;

thats where i am.

in a jumble of mumbled words,
deprived of meaning,
rich in emotion.

alternate realities consume me;

i like the simplicity,
and complexity,
of sleeping,
and dreaming,
and drifting,
and floating,
away.
please,
leave me in my
alternate realities.

out of their grasps;

put on a pretty mask,

parade around in mystery,
you do not know my face,
you do not know my purpose,
put on a pretty dress,
twirl around in loveliness,
you think you know my face,
you think you know my purpose,
i'm a lotmore than glitter and dreams,
and
theres a lot on your mind tonight.
but,
keep still, i wont let them get you.
keep still, it will fade away.
i can see it in your eyes.
say goodnight,
and never look back.

the innocence of experience;

like an unborn child, safe in the womb,

your heartbeat is my lullaby.
a rhythmic thump echoes through your body,
calming my every worry.
now, two bodies inhabiting one soul,
our beating hearts synchronize.
we feel the breeze upon our skin,
and open our bodies.
it takes us away,
our beating hearts synchronized
with the heartbeat of mother nature.
the heartbeat of life,
of love,
of death,
of dying,
of survival,
of us.

like a willow bending in the storm;

she doesnt know the word impossible,
though she's heard it a few times before,
she's never had to face it,
cause she looks for open doors.


and through those open doors,
she travels near and far,
she discovers lots of brand new things,
and keeps them in a jar.


whats in that jar?
a questions commonly asked,
its quite a mysterious happening,
very intriguging, as if its masked.


the jar is overflowing,
with very wild things,
and when she's carrying her jar,
its as if its given her wings.


for when you remove the lid,
the wildest phenomenon may occur,
everyone starts talking loud,
and no one notices her.


this is the trick of her special jar,
cause no one seems to care,
she tries to show them whats inside,
she promises its something rare.


the people always want to know,
but never listen when she tries to share,
they're too busy with their lives,
pretending like they care.


the girl is never angered by this,
she keeps this jar of hers hidden,
she's unlocked the key to all the world,
but they all think she's kiddin'.


so next time the girl tries to reveal,
whats inside that matters,
take a minute to hear her out,
or your glass jar may shatter.


its her jar of love, happiness and life,
and you have your very own,
but she's willing to give you a piece of hers,
perhaps, secrets not well known.

but for now your jar will be lacking,
if your blind to open doors,
look to find your own great things,
a search something more.

backspaces and blank pages;

let this blank page set me free,
let my words flow like blood through my veins;
my pen is my magic wand,
and i will let it wave.
a mess of ink, backspaces, crossed out phrases.
with an infinate alphabet,
and you can see my easel.
words flung like paint across the pages,
and the paper is my relfection,
a reflection,
of who i am,
who i want to be,
who i see,
what i see,
and what i think,
what i imagine.
my words are truth,
my words are lies,
my words are alive,
you can feel their pulse,
the rythm of syllables.
let them breathe,
let me breathe,
through a jumble of letters,
words,
sounds,
phonetics,
through this language,
and all the others.
my letters have a story.

the balance beyond my lips;

watching as the world crumbles,
only to find its standing still,
perfect, normal, breathing,
realizing its myself crumbling,
like the walls of the city,
down to the ground.
breathe, breathe, breathe,
i forgot how.
like moses,
i take on the red sea.
everything becomes surreal.
i will save myself.

nothing but a navajo dream;

isekemu, slow moving water flows.
anaba, returning from her war to meet
aquene, peace.
nibaw, towering above the rest.
otu, collecting shells along the sea.
payat, he is on his way.
sanuye, red clouds at sunset giving way to
taini, a new sliver of silver in the sky.
hute, stars glisten.
wenutu, clear cloudless sky illuminated by
tawa, sun.
pillan, supreme essence.
gonda, wind that touches the skin.
helki, has been touched.
hinun, spirit of the storm.
minowa, is the singer,
iqashu, seeking.
aiyana, forever flowing.
delsin, heart pounding "he is so."
awan, another face in the crowd while
abequa, stays at home with
mojaq, crying baby new in the world.
ahanu, laughter filling the soul.
wapi, luck.
eyota, great.
inteus, proud, unashamed.
me, a story.

have you felt an angels breath in the gentle breeze?

i like to trace your face,
to follow the lines and shapes of your nose,
rest my palms on your cheeks,
stare at your closed eyelids.
and let my fingers outline your lips.
i love that spot, right above the center of your upper lip.
you know, that soft indent that runs from the base of your nose
and meets your lip.
its scientifically called the philtrum, i believe.
but when i was just little girl, my mum told me
it was where the angel kissed me
right before i was born,
and that was her mark left on me.
well anyway,
i was tracing that part of your face that night.
you remember that night, dont you?
when we were wrapped up in a blanket
on my back patio,
squished onto a white wicker loveseat?
we could both barely fit since we were lying down.
it was the last days of summer,
you could feel in the breezewarm air,
but a breeze with a cool underside would wrap around us.
you could feel a lot in that breeze.
memories, love, a past, a future.
and hanging above us were windchimes.
the breeze would blow and the
the chimes performed for us.
it was the first night i fell asleep in your arms.
i never really told you,
but it was just like when i was a baby.
i dont remember it of course, but
i have seen home videos,
and my mum has painted the picture for me
if not a thousand times.
this tiny infant girl,
bundled up in blankets and layers of clothing,
and my mum, she would
lay me in this old red wooden wagon.
it was not really red, the paint was old and faded and chipped.
and she'd place the wagon on the patio
right under the chimes.
except they were never windchimes playing their music, to me at least.
she'd always say when the windchimes were being blown,
"listen to the angels sing."
that one summer night, bundled up with you,
i heard the angels sing like they never did before.
god, did they sing me the most beautiful lullaby.

gypsy souls;

She was a poetic tradgedy. I almost felt bad for her, she was gorgeous, and sometimes, pretty and sad should not go together. She had a habbit of leaving, and he had a habbit of not chasing her. I could see through her angel lips, right to the bite marks on her tongue. What could she possibly rather fix, then whats going on now? I could see her look to him, for comfort, acceptance, love. And i could see him turn away. Was she burnt out? Or did she somehow manage to fade away in between it all?
She walked over and sat down, a few seats from me. I noticed a red umbrella in her bag, tough judging my her soaked cargo pants and tank top, she had not opened it. She was most likely taking refuge under this roof too, waiting for the downpour to cease.

I spoke to her, my voice cracking. "Waiting for the storm to pass?"

She smiled, "Aren't we all?"

calm before my storm;

lacking inspiration,
lacking words to say,
lacking what i need the most,
to know that im okay.
staring in your eyes,
staring at the floor,
staring off into space,
searching for something more.
laughing at the silence,
laughing at the lies,
laughing at almost anything,
hoping to disguise.

realizing im not broken,
realizing im okay,
realizing im almost there,
theres got to be a way.

fighting for strangers lives,
fighting against the sea,
fighting to stay afloat,
trying to rescue me.

hold me as i am falling apart;

tears silently roll down my face.

you open the door;
i run to you.
safe in your arms,
no one can touch me.
i burry my face and
focus on matching
my breathing to your
heartbeat.
you hold me.
and
i am
s o o t h e d.

i am the author of my own tale;

i sleep with open pages on my chest,
ink smudged across my cheek,
a pen beneath my pillow,
books piled beside my bed,
emotions in my bones,
ideas in my mind,
and passion in my soul.

nights black mantle

its a little past midnight and the ceiling is staring back,
the lullabies i used to know are long gone with the wind.
all i hear is silence, all i see is shadows, all i know is faith in tomorrow.