New Year's

To make resolutions,
To decide to change,
You have to know
What you want
So you can decide who to be.
"Although how can you know
Who you are till you know
What you want, which you don't?"
So how do you pick?
How do you pry up
Pieces to polish and shine
So you can be a better you?
And do you even want to be
A better you?

Merry Christmas
And may you find such
Joy in sparkling lights
And warm toes
As love overflows
From the world to you.

The ice lies
Wrapped about the branches
And the strands of grass
As the sun shines
Making it all sparkle
Like a polymorphic prism.

I'm catching glimpses,
Snapshots,
Of the life my family leads.
Because I am gone,
Now I walk in the door in winter
And the tree is already decorated
And I leave before it's fully gone.
I don't have my own life,
I'm not that far removed,
I'm in this half-limbo
Of childhood and something else.
I think.

The Last Study Session

I lay on the study room floor,
Every inch of me screaming "no more,"
When I heard the tell-tale signs of someone approaching.

I expected words of jest,
Or encouragement to do my best,
But I was covered in a blanket so fine
I could recover lost peace of mind.

Say something

The snow falls and falls
In a graceful wave of winter.
It's fast movements still bestow
An aura of peace to the trees.

I'm giving up on you.

 
I'm only sorry
That I'm experiencing it alone.

A Message to College-Me and -You

Breathe,
Just breathe.
Remember how you've studied?
Remember all the notes you took?
You will succeed.
You know this.
Why be terrified you will not?
You have all these allies,
Now use them.
Do not be afraid,
For all who matter
Are on your side.
And that includes
Every professor grading your finals this week.

She

"You, poet,
What is your muse?"

She,
She is the snow falling in the lamplight
In the dead of night.
She is soft bubble
Of the sliver of a stream
As it trips down a mountain.
She is a piercing pair of ice blue eyes.
She is a slender pair of musician's hands.
She is the lowest note of joy,
The highest keen of sorrow,
And all the notes in-between I can never hit.
She's the prickling sting on my ears
As the cold grows too powerful
Even as she wraps me in the warmth
Of every hug I've ever known.

My muse is Life;
For one day,
She'll be Death.

Them

the one,
I want to touch him
As if he's made of Braille
Leaving messages of my own
Scattered across his skin
And reading the notes
He touches to me.
I want to flutter my fingertips
Over him until I've absorbed
What I can of his wisdom
And love unending.

the other,
I want to hold his attention,
Possess his time
And let minutes slip into hours
And days slide into years.
I want to know him,
Let him know me,
And find all the ways
To bring him joy.
I want the moments
To run away like clouds
With his attentions.

Funny.
When I think on them,
They seem so different,
Yet I do believe they are the same man...

Heal me,
As my body falls apart.
Heal me,
As my heart betrays my sanity.

How can I survive,
As I lose my leg
And my mobility
To the pain.

I know I can live,
Even as my emotions
Are pulled and twisted
Between all these different places.

I still need to be healed.
I will wait
And try to take care.
Heal me.

John 6:35

Isn't it funny
How those I desire
Have no time for me
And I contemplate this
The night it is posted
That "Whoever comes to me
Will never go hungry,
And whoever believes in me
Will never be thirsty."

I am leaving
To return
Yet in coming back
I only do so
To leave again.
Yet through all this
I stay.
Tell me why
This makes sense
In this crap-saccharine world.

Fighting Demons

The girl stood in her tattered and bloodied dress
Holding up with effort the nicked and scratched sword
To fend off the circling shadows.
They moved about in swirling clouds,
Each bleeding into the other.
Was her ankle snapped?
Were her knees bruised?
Were rivulets of blood running down her?
Yes, yet she stood anyway.
Yes, she was growing weaker
But she put in the effort anyway.
She was failing.

Until a warrior came to help.
He wrapped himself around her,
Straightened her grip,
Stiffened her posture,
And showed her that her "breaking" sword
Was just as shining as when first forged.
He reminded her how she could cut the shadows apart
With the smallest of strikes with the sword.

When he stepped away to let her stand alone again,
She could tell he had no shining silver armor.
This was good.
Whatever battles he'd been in,
He had survived them.
So as the woman in sturdy armor beat back her shadows,
He slipped away to fight his own,
Leaving the tiniest of threads between them
That either could summon help.

In the Quiet Moments

In the quiet moments,
I remember the feel of you,
How it felt to be wrapped
And touched by another.
I remember your sweetness
And the warmth of arms.
The terrifying thing,
Is that I miss all that
Without missing you.

Missing you
Is a cry reserved for the graveyard
Of my heart
Where lies every dear name
I've ever lost
Or forgotten.

His Words to Her

What was going to bed
In the face of the sweet oblivion
That was you?
What was sleep,
When confronted with the comforting nothingness
Your single-flame life provides?
You burn so bright,
How could I close my eyes
To the light of your soul?

Wrap Me

Wrap me in your arms.
Wrap me in your words.

I've ripped myself apart;
I tugged my heart loose
And gave an ear to any
That needed to speak
And all the care I could spare
To any that needed a smile.
And when my heart
Could not expand fast enough,
I tore my time into slivers
I've thrown every which way,
Where there's even the slightest
Cry for help for any project.
And when time ran out,
With too much to do
And too many to help,
I slashed at my mind
To try to understand
Myself and all around me
And any problem imaginable.
When all this was in tatters,
I eyed my scars,
Where flesh and blood
Had already been severed
By everyday dangers of life.

Wrap me in your arms.
Wrap me in your words.

Come alongside me,
Holding tape,
But do not give it.
Come alongside
This shredded flag
And plant it
Where shine the Light and Love
Of what is Enough
To Pay For It All,
A sum no amount of
Heart,
Time,
Mind,
Blood
Of mine can pay.

Wrap me in your arms.
Wrap me in your words.

I am losing.
I cannot win.
I can't look away
From the scars inside
I desperately want to etch
On the outside.
But that will not pay,
Will not fulfill the requirements.
So I shed my scales.
But am not Enough.

Wrap me in your arms.
Wrap me in your words.
Remind me that I do not
Have to be Enough.

I told him how to care for me,
How to show me I'm not
Some pathetic leaf on the wind to him.
I told him,
And he forgets.
What the boy does not understand
Is that I don't work like him
And I never will.
But I'll do my best to meet him as he is,
To show care how he understands it.
But he must do the same for me.

There are sometimes
Very nice people
That I want to punch in the face.

Like the girl
Who wears suede sole dance shoes
OUTSIDE
All the time
Even when it rains and turns to snow.

Or the mismanaging chick
In charge of my vocal group
Who hasn't started rehersals
Or handed out music
And it's less than a week to our concert.

Someone punch them for me
Because I still have to be nice to them.

I can't hold all this together.
Not me,
Not my friends.
And it's killing me.
I feel as if I must,
And I cannot let go of that need.
So when it all falls apart
For me and others,
What can I do?
Words don't work,
Not if they won't come.

My Chicks

They're sleeping around me,
The men I try to protect,
The two I wish to gather beneath my wings
So that the wind and rain can't reach them.
I want to hold them close
That the cold can never touch them,
Only the heat of protective love,
As I find myself an older sister twice more.

Oh friends,
Stay with me
Where the earth is soft
And I can stand strong against your troubles.
Oh friends,
Sleep in peace,
Let me stand guard
Against the nightmares that haunt your dreams.

I will never leave you.
I will be there when you call.
I will always be your shelter
Should the storm grow to be too much.

I Have a Self

I have a self.
I know this.
When I close my eyes,
And look within,
As my philosophy professor
Tells me to do so,
I can see her.

She stands,
Strongly,
Smiling bravely,
Even as streams of blood
Leak from holes and scratches
Across her body.

And every experience,
Rather than adding to a "bundle,"
Adds a scratch
Or a bandage.
That strong core
Will always be there.
Her smile will shift,
Her stance change,
But she will always be the same.

I am invisible
Yet cannot bring myself
To fix the problem.

Because that would mean
Choosing me
Before others.

I will always put others first,
Even if it makes no sense
I will try to do it.

And it hurts.
For I never know when
It's acceptable to pick me.

So when I call for help
But others are busy,
I feel hurt that they choose themselves.

Though,
I don't blame them.
I'd pick them over me any day anyway.

What should I say
About the terror and fright
That accompanies
Fall's Halloween night?

(Aw snap I set myself up
For a rhyming poem.
Screw it.)

The fear of unknown
And the joy of the hunt
Makes every child work
For the perfect stunt.

With costumes and hair
And candy galore
There's no telling what
Those at the door have in store.

And if you bring them
This short pretty rhyme
I'll bet you'll have plenty
Of candy in time.

He forgot me.

I suppose I never told him,
How I'm invisible
And that it kills me,
So I'm expecting something
I have no right to expect.

I'm still angry.

This is why,
Even as I sit at a table
Surround by 20-odd people
Who I can name
And name their favorite teas,
I still only believe I have two friends.

Earl Grey

He cuts me like a knife
And he doesn't even know.
Sitting at the end
Of a flickering,
Fading connection
Of LED lights
And wires and invisible wi-fi lines
And even cellular tracks,
Is a relationship I don't understand.

One day I'll kick down the door of his room,
Throw a box of Earl Grey at his face,
And tell him I don't comprehend
But a little effort on his part
Would tell me I'm his friend.

Perhaps I should cut my losses,
And hie to those
That show me they care.
But he was kind
The times he acted as my friend.
And I'm no quitter,
Even if I was never ahead.

I had forgotten
How much I love
To cover myself
With a harmless mask
And to be another,
To perform.
I did not,
However,
Miss auditioning.

The Hawk

He's a hawk,
A beautiful thing
That I can admire
But must not dare
To dream he'll come to rest
On my arm of his own accord.
He'll come when I call
For it's what he does.
Yet should I merely watch
His circular and winding flight
I won't even pretend to imagine
He would notice he'd forgotten me.

A Leaf on the Wind

I'm just a leaf on the wind
That no one sees
Until it flutters into their face,
A bother that soared in their way.
When I'm needed,
When I laugh,
Then suddenly I'm the tree,
Standing tall and wide
Casting such shade
I can see in their eyes
They can't imagine not
Having me around.
And then I sit here,
Sans communication,
Knowing I'm once again
Just that little leaf on the wind.
Watch me soar.

I took lies into myself
That others might not be sad.
But I forgot to uproot them
Before they crawled in
And grew lies of their own.
So I carve this pathetic smile
Onto my face
Not because I'm sad
But because I forgot
How to be happy.

The pain in my back is fire.
The pain in my heart is ice.
Each ripples and receds
At the edges of its borders,
Daunting and cruel
In its refusal to fade away.

I befriended a butterfly,
Young and strong,
Who carries things without a care
And keeps his wings buzzing bright.

Yet a cat cannot pin down this butterfly
And keep it unharmed and new,
To leave it as itself
I must watch in confusion from my stable condition.

Superboy and the Invisible Girl

I'm invisible.
I'm forgettable.
I won't pretend I don't care,
But it also doesn't bother me,
In the way aches don't matter
Because you're used to them.

So look at him,
Dressed to the nines every day,
With a winning smile
And loping gait.
His intelligence is proven
By the school he attends.

I will pass by unseen,
In my jeans and t-shirt.
I'm used to it,
I know that to so many,
I'm not there.

Those that see me,
Some care for me so much
I am always there and they always hear me.
A few see me
Because they're invisible too.

It's no surprise to this invisible girl
That superboy doesn't seem
To look twice at her.

Don't love me,
For I am so wrong.
I am chaos
And ugly.
How I could think
That you could notice me,
Befriend me,
Is beyond comprehension.

My fingernails
Are cracked and bloody
From ripping at this mask
I've worn for so long
And sewed in place
That I might participate
In man's fatal duality.
Yet has this mask
Made a coward of me?

There is a disorder in my loves,
And love does conquer all after all,
All must bow to love.
But I cannot bow enough,
Cannot tear enough
Cannot rip out enough of this thrice-damned pride
To crawl away
And cry for help to those that can aid me.
I cannot weep;
I will not let myself
So I condemn myself to agony,
Knowing that I must turn,
Must change,
But these changes are difficult for a reason.
They cannot be made alone.

It's October now.
I can see it by the leaves.
The reds and yellows
That I want to snatch up,
Carry off,
And seal away to keep this time
In place forever.
How swiftly I would lose
The terms Faust set down
And Goethe wrote,
I can scarcely believe. 

Share Pain

You try to understand,
But you can't quite wrap your head around
The pain I've laid out for you to see.
I can tell.
It's not for a lack of trying,
Nor should you be blamed.
You cannot teach someone to feel an emotion
They've never felt before.
Do not let your heart be troubled,
By sympathy and care without comprehension,
For I have a secret for you:

I do not quite understand my pain either.

Yet the tears still fall
And the heart still writhes.
Arms still bring comfort
In the warmth that simple love provides.

It's been two nights in a row,
Of too late nights
Covered in tea
And too deep conversations
Where we've laid our hearts bare
And come out of it
Stronger and weaker
But so much better friends.
'Cause now I'm carrying you
And you're carrying me.
I've carried friends before,
And now I see just how much I've changed
As now I let other not only see my burdens
But carry them with me.

I writhe in embarrassment,
And mortification,
And resolve never to text him again,
Just before reaching for my phone
And composing a message
That I might never send.

Just about to burst with bitterness,
I am reminded
That it would be far better
To find away
To build something lovely
Even with all this distress.

I'm pushing a wall,
Hoping to move it,
Shift it,
Change it, something!
More importantly,
I'm hoping
It will push back.

Little fairy lights,
All blinking in a line.
Little fairy lights,
In mason jars do shine.

They line the darkened pathway
To secrets known to all,
They're hanging from the trees
On the road to the music hall.

Every day
Without him in it
Is a little sadder
Than those with him.
And I want to do everything
Within my power
To call his attention to me,
His affections,
But yet that is not who I am.
So I'll quietly sit here
And pen silent poems
To the world who will never read them.

Pulled and twisted,
Ached and bleeding,
Sweating far too much,
I collapse on my chair,
Longing for a drink
Or sleep.
The latter comes first
In the aftermath
Of a fantastic out-door swing dance.

Can he hear my bird-like heart
Smashing itself
Against the bars of this cage,
Called fear,
And crying out in tones I think sweet,
"Like me?"

Do you think he can see
The way my eyes
Flicker and follow
And track his movement,
Murmuring quietly,
"Notice me?"

Can he tell
That I didn't hear a word
Of the song we danced to
Because I was too busy
Smiling
Over every little gesture he made?

Do you think he hears
The very pattern of my voice
Striving to say
In all too few words
And hide in an every-day conversation,
"Adore me?"

When no one wants you,
How do you want yourself?
When no one gives you a chance,
How do you take a chance for you?
Yet somehow,
The easiest thing to do when I feel low
Is lift others up.

I guide my friend,
As best I can,
Through her sorrows,
Feeling for all the world
Like the blind
Leading the blind.

For food,
For school,
I will stroll
Along campus's paved paths.
Ah,
But for dance,
For dance I will race
Down paths of my own choosing.

The Protector

I am the eldest daughter.
I will protect my sister
Will everything I have.
I will sit in my room
And cry,
Not because our choir director
Destroyed my joy in singing,
But because he is stealing
Her confidence and joy
And I can't stand
In-between her
And that bullet.
I will encourage friends,
I will bolster hope,
Even if I have to lie
Through my teeth
That it will be alright
Because if I don't
I haven't tried hard enough,
Haven't bled enough,
To keep those I care about
Far, far away from any pain.
I will hide my own sorrows,
My own concerns,
Because they are burdens
I do not wish upon myself
So how could I wish them
Upon my friends?
Thus I protect
And refuse to be protected.
But slowly,
I'm coming to realize
Just how unprotected
I have made myself live.

If ice cream warms
The cockles of my heart,
What does that say
About the temperature of that part?

I have terrible form
When I run
But I don't care.

I'm not trying
To win any races anymore.
Now I run for joy.

I run for the joy
Of those few seconds in the air
With the wind in your face
And heart loving each moment.

Legs stretched out
To take as much ground as possible,
I will run because I love to

My Dance Teacher

He's like an uncle,
Or that family friend
That somehow became one of yours.
He looks out for me
Even as he teaches me.
He's not just a teacher,
That much is clear.

I keep him laughing;
It's the least I can do.
And like a proper uncle,
He makes me laugh in return,
One who won't let me escape
Without words of wisdom
That I'll carry with me all year.

Holding on too hard
To what I must let go
And forgetting
What I must remember.

After 7 years,
I finally
Saw a vista
That made me
Fall just a little
In love
With this city.

This city,
I've resisted
With all my might,
Flinging its grasp
Back into the night
Of my pain.

But today,
In the fading dim,
Through all the stress
And annoyance of the day,
Coming over that weak hill
To see the small skyline
Against the sky,
That was a small,
Small,
Comfort.

I'm tripping over
My own two feet
In my race
To get back home,
Back to school.

Plato and Dance

My dance teacher got me talking
and now I have to somehow try to write out
everything I’m thinking
because I can’t fit it all into a text.

Dance is incredible.
I hope you know this
and have experienced it for yourself.
Because there are moments
where I am not me.
I’m more than me. I am
that movement in
that moment in
those notes
and it is something Beautiful and beyond me.

I am reaching for Plato’s Form of the Beautiful
in those moments in dance when I can forget me.
I’m leaving his cave
without being blinded by the brilliance
that cast those shadows on the wall,
because I am more than human
in those moments I forget what the false, evil, and ugly are
.
I cannot,
however,
reach for the Good and True by forgetting.
For that,
I must remember
and learn to turn towards those Forms.
And there are ways I reach for the Beautiful by remembering.

But there’s nothing so like forgetting
I am a mortal tied to Earth
that helps me reach for that universal Beauty.
It’s not contained inside me,
I know that.
It’s out there,
a universal unconcerned with what’s popular or new,
because it’s BBFs with what is Good and True for always and forever.
And when I dance I can touch it.

That thought is so wonderful.

And so terrifying…

Let me share things with you,
And you with me.
I want more rapport,
More talk.
But maybe I'm just begging a wall
To walk towards me.
I'll have more clues
Once ten days
Have come and gone.

I can endue
Any pain thrown at me
But one.

Lonliness?
Ha! I have Psalms 4.
Rejection?
Ha! I have Romans 8:38-39.
No aches,
No groans,
No scars etched on the mind
Hold me down
Strong enough to keep my hands
From the Light.

Only because I still have the power
To forget.
With the Logos,
I remember the Good;
I remember the True.

But with dance
I move towards the Beautiful
For I forget me.
I can let go
Of all the aches and pains
And reach for Beauty.

So to lose dance,
To lose the place where I forget,
And in that forgetting become more
Than human,
To lose dance is the one thing
I could not endure,
The greatest fear
That seeps its way
Into nightmares and daydreams.

Cars Tell Secrets

I can tell who I am
By my car,
Even now,
After only a summer with her.
The cassette tapes resting proudly
In any crevice,
Bearing the Beach Boys, Billy Joel,
And the Police for all eyes and ears
To enjoy like I do.
A beach towel lies in the back seat
With a hardy pair of sunglasses
And an over-chlorinated watch.
One golden, suede-sole shoe
Lies on the passenger seat,
Her sister fell off next to the umbrella
And giant roll of duct tape.
I find the empty can of Arizona tea
Very telling.

The car that belongs to my father
Tells more about my sister,
What with the apple stickers
Over the driving wheel
And sheet music scattered over every
Space in the car for passengers
And mixed with work schedules.
His only trace is found in the radio stations,
Aside from the setting for the classical one,
And the window stickers for his alma mater.
His presence is drowned out by the extra clothes
Covered in grass, blue paint, and mud,
Especially the ragged tennis shoes.
Not to mention,
The seat is pulled way close to the wheel.

So close,
To so much.
To the end of a summer,
The end of work season.
So close
To the beginning of school,
Hopefully a new job.
So close
To saying a painful goodbye,
To finding joyful hellos.

When the clouds hang low over the plains
And the cold wind blows across the pool,
I can just barely make myself believe
That it's the salty sea air I breathe.

Richenfeels Lullaby

Hush little fangirl, don't you cry.
Moriarty'll make your genius fly.
And if that genius won't fly swell,
James will take your doctor as well.

Hush little fangirl, don't shed a tear
Just because Watson came too near.
Don't run sobbing down the hall
Just because Sherlock took the fall.

Hush little fangirl, hold back the flood.
Molly will clean up all the blood.
She'll keep his cold corpse safe and sound
Until they put him in the ground.

Hush little fangirl, don't say a word
Or Moffat will unleash the writer herd.
And when they get their hands on you
You'll be glad that was all to Season 2.

Hush little fangirl, don't you sigh.
We'll get Season 3 now by and by.
And even if it's when we're sixty-six,
We'll still see how well Watson kicks*.

*kicks Sherlock's butt of course

Poetic Shipping

I wonder if she reads them,
The poems he writes about her.
I wonder if she feels a pang,
Imagining the lines writ for another.

Then he shakes his head,
"No, no,
"It's you."

I wonder who she is.
But I hope she counts herself lucky.
And I also hope she is the friend I'm thinking of,
For the two were well matched last I saw.

Web of Memories

A web of memories
Across the mind,
Blinking with synapses
Firing through minute pathways
That images long gone
Might be seen again.

I love the sky after a storm.
Last night,
To the west as the sun set,
The sky was a perfect rosy red,
Bringing this girl delight.

Slightly to the south,
The curve of the Earth
Had already thrown the clouds
Into purple shadow.

But to the west,
The clouds were painted
A perfect gold with lovely strokes.
Full yet subtle,
Defined yet I can see
Where the Painter has blended
The gold with the blue of the sky,
Washed pure with the passed rain.

So beautiful.

Unwanted by the
World, she must fight so that
She does not want it.

Falling apart,
Piece by piece,
That the Almighty
Might patch me up
With seamless threads
And perfect swaths of gold.

Sitting in the office,
Alone,
I let flies crawl over me.
I don't care.
I feel more dead
Than alive anyway.
Might as well look it.

Because I'm not in control,
And in that moment,
It's all I can do
To not throw a fit.
I seek to be a child,
Demanding it's way,
When a much Wiser Father
Says "no."

Teach me to walk better,
Saner,
Wiser,
That I may let things go.

888 Hours

888 hours
To August 25th
In Hillsdale, Michigan.

888 hours,
And then some,
Until I see them again,
My friends,
My peers.

That's not say
There are not friends
Near me now.
It's just I long
For what I do not have.

888 hours
Until I'm home again.

887 hours.

Drowning in music
And forgetfulness
But I forget
If I should or do care.

All I can remember
Is that my limbs
Beg to move
And long to fly.

There are duties
And responsibilities.
I will fulfill them,
Finding music in them
So that I might always drown.

I once invited the monsters under my heart,
All the darkness and sadness,
I invited it to tea.
I sat down all the tears in my psyche
And I figured them out
So that I might use them for a poem.
But now they won't bugger off!

Ocean Gravity

Something always brings me back,
Back to rolling waves
And salty water that sticks to skin.
It never takes too long.
I come flying back,
Tumbling down hills
To bury my heart beneath sand
And hide it in the tides.

(why don't they let stuff be untitled? annoying...)

A red and proud land,
Made heavy
With the weight of wanderlust
And years smashed onto years.

Curving lines
Trace water and road.
Out here,
Man finds a way
To simultaneously
Move with the way of the land
And slice through it.

A new dream is born:
To sit on these sifting sands,
And aged rocks of plateau,
And just be.

A Summer Adventure

Off on an adventure,
To journey back and forward.
To see what was
And enjoy was it,
And catch a glimpse of what
Will be.

So search the west for me,
The skies and the seas.
You'll find me where the stars
Walk the streets in daylight
And the wind of change
Blow us all about.

I shall not return,
At least,
Not as I am now.

Despair

It is a terrible despair,
Knowing you'll never be able
To live off your passion.
But American society
Isn't build to support career poets,
And I fell back in love with dance
Too late.

Don't get me wrong,
I do love history.
I do love what I've chosen for myself.
But what is the point
Of screaming into paper
If no one will hear me?
What is the point
Of learning more movements
If I will never use it
Except sad, lonely nights alone in my kitchen?

When the tears leave,
All there that is left
Is cold, quiet, crippling despair
Inking itself
Into every corner of my life.

Thames River

I remember the river,
And the rolling rhythm
That sang to my soul.
The lights glistened like gold
In the darkness deep
With its seeming smile
That led my heart
To long to leap,
Pulling at my pulmonary.
That siren sang* sang
Until I grasped the guardrail
Caught in this cry
To desire my own destruction.
I eye the edge
Between life and death,
Pen and paper,
Ink and blood,
Only because the poem told me to-

Then suddenly as the song began,
It ends and
I am left bereft.
Because the poem desires to be written,
To be told,
And it knows I have more poems
So the fatal song waits outside my memory
Until it sings again,
Until my life-ink has run dry
And the last words written.

*A/N: The word sang is French for "blood" and sounds very similar to the English word "song."

Life Turns

Life turns,
On a dime
And on the wheel.

Life turns on a dime.
One day
You have a friendship
And a secret love
That might blossom
And grow so that you might learn
Of yourself and the other,
But the next day you stare down sorrow
As you're torn apart
Without the chance
Of ever knowing what might have been.

Life turns on the wheel.
An ancient song,
Sung to you,
Is used to calm a panicked friend.
A modern song,
That you learned to dance to
In your basement on your father's toes,
Takes you across the floor with strangers.
A well-loved and known book,
Read to you before you knew words,
Is read to one hurt
And they slowly crawl off the ledge to you.

Life turns on a dime.
Life turns on the wheel.

Dans La Lune

A man in the moon?
I tilt this way and that,
Trying to find the face
Thousands claim to see,
Most famously Méliès.

But all I see is a rabbit,
A creature that stands
For creativity,
Speed, and abundance.
And is that not what the moon
Speaks, too?

Ripples and ringlets
And round, round circles
As like dives into like.
With drip and drop
Water rises
As water falls.

Everything is quiet,
Listening to the rain.

It's a wonderful sun,
Even though I am quite red.
I can't bring myself to mind
When I carry warmth in my skin.

The Could-Have-Been King

With every decision,
We feed the Could-have-been King.
His army of Meanwhiles
And Neverweres
Grows each time we turn left
Instead of right.

But the Would-Have-Been Prince
Has one sad flaw:
He is a Never-Will-Be.
And one Is
Can withstand thousands
Of Is-Nots
And Cannot-Be's,
For one Is has the infinite advantage
Of being real.
It may stumble,
And falter,
Under the weight
Of a million
Might-Have-Beens,
But that one Is will triumph.

I AM
Always defeats
I-am-not.

When I get a scratch,
One that draws blood,
I am sometimes filled
With the urge
To purposefully cut there again
In order to ensure a scar.

Maybe it's because
I want my skin to tell a story,
Not to be perfect.
I want my skin
To tell the world
I have been through fire,
Or thorns and pointy desks as it were,
And survived.

There is something that stops me.
And it's more than the memory
Of the young girl who only
Wore long sleeves.
It's something more that I can't explain,
As well as the knowledge that if I started
I would be unable to stop.

As I write this,
I wonder wether
Writing out the darkness helps define it,
Shape it,
That I may understand it
And defeat it.
Or does writing my thoughts
Make them stronger?

Everything is tainted -
But that's not the right word,
Neither is touched,
Or any other word I can think up -
By him

Reminding me
How easily he slipped from my life,
And not just him
But others as well.

It brings to mind
How easy it would be
To just
Cease,
To slip from other's lives
Bit by bit
And then just
Cease to be.

I know there are those
That would chase after me.
But people tend to give up
When a battle cannot be won.

But then I remember
I belong to El Shaddai
And the all-consuming fire
So I cannot allow this little spark
To fizzle out and die
With a whimper
Rather than a bang.

I may not burn
Here on Earth
For as long as some,
But it's my duty,
My right,
To burn twice as bright.

A wind blows across my shoulder,
Tasting of cold
And summer not yet here.
It makes me wonder
What season it shall be
When I walk streets of gold
In His company.

Will it be a winter
Of endless peace and rest
With stillness and life together?
Or perhaps an autumn
Where the harvest never ends?
Maybe a summer
With eternal sunshine
And breezy joy?
What if it's a spring
Always full of new life and green?

Or shall it be all that at once?
And better?

Seeming Stars

Seeming stars
Defying fire and sky
Dancing on the surface
Of the water
As the sun begins to hide
His glorious face.
It's impossible to look away.

Beloved

It so often feels
As though I cry,
Shout into the darkness
And all that returns
Is a pitiful echo
Of what I thought was
Something beautiful
Or strong.

Then there are the times
I cry out into the darkness
And a golden voice speaks back,
Beloved...

Work has begun.
It's time for sun,
And water and small children
I can't resist,
And others that have grown
And now swim on their own.

Another year
Praying for rain, clouds, and clear skies
All at once,
Hoping for an empty pool deck
But full water.

More months
Ready to kill one coworker
And hoping to befriend others.
Time passing teaching the kids
To swim and move on their own,
So I don't have to worry so much
As they swim.
Just worry about them
When the grow "too old"
To come to the pool.

I'm just like her.
I keep silent;
I try to make peace.
But I stay too silent,
Like her,
And let the war rage on
Inside.
After all,
I look like her,
And apparently drive like her,
So why shouldn't
I solve problems like my mom?

I clean
And organize
And hope everything
Is right.
'Cause there's lots to do
And I hope I've done right
The seemingly little yet loads
I've completed.
At least music helps the time pass.
I just need people home.

The rules lie broken
At the foot of the cross.
For upholding
Six hundred and thirteen rules
Only shows how faulty we are,
How our own legs are already shattered;
It gives us no grace,
No righteousness.
So trust,
Don't try,
And in those three words
Is the simplest and most difficult instruction
I've ever received.
So trust,
Don't try,
And I'll be right there next to you
Failing the same way
Over and over again
As we move toward the Light.

These empty hands
Still feel a heartbeat.
And I'm a little sorry I let it go,
But not so
When I lie awake at night
And count my shallow breaths
Knowing that heartbeat will be alright,
And so will I.

Saying goodbye
Hurts so much,
But I'm glad that you too
Chase after Truth,
So one day we'll say hello again.

An Empty Heart Filled Too Full

An empty heart filled too full.
A still heart beating twice too fast.

It will be poured out,
Emptied of its nothingness,
Set to running again
In a quest to be stuffed to the brim.

It will be calmed,
Shown the speed of life,
Set to running again
To find the rhythm it requires.

An overflowing heart still empty.
A racing heart far too motionless.

I stood under a lonely streetlamp,
A faint drizzle
Brushing past the leafy green trees.
As the night wore on,
I could hear the lonely sound
Of a solo trumpet
Echoing through the night.

And I whispered to the Eternal Something
"Might I have a poem?"

And the Eternal Something whispered back
"Not tonight."

Not-Quite Ghosts

People leave their marks on things.
A flash of memory there.
A memory of touch here.
A touch of longing, too.

Songs are never the same
When people walk out of the melody.
Gardens look different
Without that one shadow across it.

Now all of campus is empty,
Yet I am here.
All these not-quite ghosts
Go striding past my eyes.

Three hundred
And sixty five
Poems.

Three hundred
And sixty five
Stories.

And they all add up
To one.

Piece by piece
They make up me
And memory and memory
They create me.

So three hundred
And sixty five
Poems,
All here on this blog.
They mark out a life,
Ink out an age.

So here I am.
In three hundred
And sixty five
Pieces.

What do you think of me,
After all these days?

I am writing a love poem to myself,
For I have none to do it for me,
And would ask for none in any case.

But I am a goddess of movement.
I am flame and fire,
Sinew and muscle that cannot be severed
Because I am destruction,
Decay,
Desire,
That can hurt
But oh, I use to it heal.

The floating beauty I adore
I capture to fly about in a glorious waltz
Or glide through a lovely foxtrot.

And yet I am not a one-trick-pony.
For when I need to,
Or want to,
My movements exude sex.
For I am fast and wild and wicked good.

Then there is the nerf war.
Oh, I feel so alive.
I am strong
I am silent
I am fury and I am glory.
I may be defeated but never without honor,
Never out without a bang.

I am a goddess of movement.
I do not walk.
I dance lineally.
I want to fly and so I dance.
I'm too damn hot
And I'm the way God made me.

Lord give me light,
For that is what I need.
I am dark and there is no reprieve.
I eliminate one stress,
But another sorrow is fast on its heels.
And those that light up my life
Are never around long enough to illuminate me to You,
And when they go
It's darker than before in the places they leave.
So please give me light.
Because I flounder in situations
I do not understand and cannot control,
And yet even as I reach for you I pull back
Because I do want that power
But all I do is stubbornly plunge into darkness.
Please give me light.

I cried happy tears
As I realized
That not only
Did I long to sit in silence
And peace with all my friends,
That would be Heaven,
Would be paradise.
Now I believe
That's what it will be.

There's a wound festering,
And I'm letting it,
Because nothing feels so like flying
As falling,
Even if you're being dragged down
And there is nothing I love so much
As cold water rushing over my closed eyelids
Even if I'm plunging down and down...

So yes,
I am tormented.
But I won't ask for help.
I so detest bleeding on people.

On Darker Nights, If Man be Ink

On darker nights,
When the wind howls
And sorrows stick to the skin,
I remember how
Should I be stabbed
I would apologize for bleeding on you.

If man be ink
And he live beneath canvas
Why not finger paint?

I'm bleeding ink,
Bleeding out,
Trying to speak
When I lost my voice long ago writing.
And here you ride in,
On your ridiculous red bike
And gray sweater,
Rather than white steed and shining armor,
As if brevity
And wit,
Can turn river-runs of ink-blood to finger-paint?

Let my language be the storm to dazzle,
And I shall sing down the rain,
To wash and smear away the mess.
For brief I am,
And witness to much pain,
Like the o'erwatching clouds.

"Words, words, words,"
"I am so sick of words"
And yet they are all I have,
All that will remain
Long after the rain passes
Even if the drops that float down the air
Bring cleansing and more and more words
To scribble in the ink that I fear will run out.
'Cause in the brief time I am here,
How many times can I read Psalms 4?

Never give over.
Though Death soar about
And life isn't easy,
Live with sweat.
For when you've bled yourself speechless,
Language will swell
Like lake spray at full boil
As my speech fills your cup anew
To spill over the pages that the world is to you.

Exchanging one language for another,
Borrowing life from another,
Tis as easy as flying
And difficult like breathing,
For I'm already speechless,
Haven't you been listening?
How am I to unblot the page
And un-stopper a choked voice?
I know the answer;
You don't have to say it.

Say,
Why are we soft like lather?

To clean others?

Taste life,
'Tis bitter as blood.
And stains a person just as well.
Put another in the wash machine
And you just make black as bold as sordid.
Why are we soft?

I bruise in the washing machine,
I know,
I've tried to fit before.
Are we not soft,
So that all the falls and rolls
When dodging from the punches
Hurt less than the blows that land?

So that's why my pillow flees...
And I thought it was the stuffings of my head,
In so close companionship
With such high-grade pillow brains,
That scared it off...

How can you be so light,
Seem so light,
When Atlas puts his weight on the Earth
And his shadow itself must be lifted up?

Because giants,
Like us,
Are only ugly meat after death.
And dreams are refrigerators,
Keeping us.
Giants shall fall,
And I shall outlive our sky-bearer
To touch my stars.

Your metaphors,
Well it makes sense that they would be like you.
Is the fault,
Dear poet,
In our stars or ourselves?
What makes us master of our fate?
What makes us captain of our soul?

"What? What?"
More like Why? Why?
For the what gives the why,
So start from the result
To learn how to learn
From the what
Which the Why
Did come from

Learn to turn then.
"Turning, turning...
What's the use of tears?"
What's the use of questions?
Running around and around answers
Chasing one
Than another.
"What" and "Why" are my good friends
But that doesn't mean I know them at all.

So let me give you a not-so-secret:
For every moan,
Think more joyfully
And purple-y.
Because if you must run your words out,
Answering questions you cannot know,
Let them remind people of the beautiful things.
Like eggplants.

So weak, cowardly,
Am I, who once boasted of
Bravery in me,

The Rain Cleanses

Rain gets so many different reactions.
There are the people who just don't care.
And there go those who tend far too much
To their appearance that a little water
Is just criminal.
And there goes the kid
Who likes rain
But only when equipped with umbrella.

But then there are those
Who love the rain
And don't care about getting a little damp.

Because some of them realize
That rain cleanses.
With enough,
It sweeps leaves and dirt
From the sidewalks into the sewers
And adds a dash of freshness
To the ponds and streams.

It cleanses us, too,
If we let it.
If we allow the rain to wash away what's past
Who knows where we might stand tomorrow,
Which drives the question:
Is cleansing worth it?
Is it worth
The squishing and squeaking shoes?
The drops of water running down the scalp
And next to the ankle, into the sock?
Is it worth that one lucky drop
That hits you right in the ear?

Is it worth it?

For the chance to be Gene Kelly,
Yes.
For the chance to be Lea Salonga's Eponine,
Yes.
For the chance to bloom like the last flower that once refused to grow?

Yes.

I am frustrated,
For no matter how hard I try,
Each time I go to write a poem
I am consumed with the desire
To curl up into a little ball
And cry my life away.
I've got to figure out
How to work through the pain.
But I'm pretty sure
That means facing the problem.
And how am I supposed to do that without poetry?

Sing angels of music that live in the Student Union.
Sing because I cannot.
Too much fear
In this old heart.
But you,
You make me think that one day,
I can sing.
That one day the aches will fade.
So sing angels of music.
For you touch each heart around you.

I'm suffering the dancer's nightmare:
Wounded feet.

A blister unites the pads
At the north of my left foot.
A broken one
Stings in the same place
On my right.

Meaning I limp about,
Gauze swathing my feet,
As I lament my broken mobility.

There is denial in our bones,
Hardwired into our souls.

Because Death will come aknocking
And we don't want to open that door,
And offer him tea,
Or scones,
Then join him on the long ride
To Eternity.

Why does it come as such a surprise
That while we may
Learn our faults
And discern how to improve,
We cannot take the wheel into our hands
And turn down the road to change.

Denial does not become us.

Even Iron Rusts

Even iron rusts.
Not only steel corrodes.
Bones creak
And beating hearts just
Stop.

For "nothing gold can stay;"
Flowers fade each day.
And you can count life
In years, days, minutes
But why bother
When worrying about the seconds you've had
Costs you seconds to have.

Even iron rusts.
Not only steel corrodes.
Bones creak
And beating hearts just
Stop.

 We know our own mortality
And yet among us walk souls
We never quite think will leave;
Until one morning
She simply
Goes.

Even iron rusts.
Not only steel corrodes.
Bones creak
And beating hearts merely
Stop.

-For Maggie

Speaks Volumes

Do you ever wonder who you are?

It’s an important thing to know.

It kinda affects everything.

I tell my friends I’m a cat,

Or a kitten,

With all the grace and dignity of one

Because I might fly about the room

In a glorious waltz one moment

But then two days later I trip over my own paws and I fall

Only to roll and leap back up again,

Frazzled and disoriented but I kinda look like I know what I’m doing!

But lately,

I’ve realized I’m more than a cat.

Because I tell a select few near everything,

But I tell everyone something,

And something different.

To the guy who sat next to me in Politics 101 and on the plane to school after spring break,

I shared how I’ve always hated flying over water.

I love water,

I am a lifeguard after all,

But the thought of plunging into water trapped in this death machine makes me fear drowning.

And I’m not afraid of all the little moments I can’t remember because I think the Silence are after me.

It’s because I fear I’m losing my mind.

Batman is the only one I tell dirty jokes to,

And they’re not even dirty enough for her.

She’s also the only one I’d really talk fashion to

And I can’t believe I don’t call her Batman more often.

And the young man who became one of my best friends in two days by giving me a hug when he noticed I was hurting,

I didn’t tell him I hate to be touched 95% of the time

Because he’s one of two people who walked with me when I lost my best friend,

And I didn’t even tell him I lost the friend by breaking up with him.

So while I may be a cat,

I am also a poem.

I say so little

But that little speaks volumes

And lines that seem to be thrown away leave me completely open

And those poems I write in the back of my French notes tell me who I am.

God help me,

Because sometimes I hate her.

God help me,

Because like a poem,

She’s beautiful.

I haven't had a place
That's home
In so long.

Sure,
My heart clenched
When I saw my dad
In the airport waiting
For me.
And yeah,
I felt at home
Walking in the door
Of the house.

But no,
The city lights
Did not make me smile.
The rolling river
Brought me no joy.

And yet on the way here,
To school,
I'm a town away
And I can feel
Excitement building
And my heart twisting.

The people are home, yes.
But so is the place.
Finally.

Rise

He rises today
As He always does.
He rises today
As He always will.

For Death has no power,
Not any more,
No strength beyond
What He has given.
And what is given to Death
Will be taken away.

So Rise yourself.
Rise and accept freedom,
Death, and true Life.
The True Love
That the fairy tales forget
Was etched in stone,
Etched with blood,
On the cross.

We can be "just" friends.
"Just" help each other out.
"Just" listen when we need it.

We can be "just" friends,
And "just" be there.

Because how can I
Figure out "me"
In the middle of "us?"

Stop the Music

Can a song end unresolved?
Can we pause the notes,
Stop the music,
Halt its course
And move on
Without any questions,
Any attempts
To start the sounds again,
At least for now?

Spring will come.
I am sure of it.
The snow is melting
And I doubt its return,
For the last attempt
At keeping all frozen
Has not lasted a week.

There are fat robins
And plumb sparrows
Fluttering around the yard
The slowly turns to green.
They mean spring,
Spring is coming.
Finally.

As I walk
With eyes cast down
Pondering sorrows,
I hear a clatter
And lift my head.

A deer skitters past,
Running across the parking lot
Afraid yet seeming
To show off,
Just a little,
Before she disappears around a corner.

I keep walking,
And as I pass the corner,
I turn my head.

There she stands,
Silhouetted by a streetlamp,
In all her wild glory.

"You're beautiful,"
I murmur,
As if post-midnight words
In a language she'll never know
Will calm her heart
And bring her to me.

I take a few more strides,
Then turn again.

She still stands there,
Turning her head to follow me
As I resign myself to sleep again.

I look back once more,
Before I round my final corner.
It was only a few seconds,
But in that little time,
She silently vanished.

As I walk,
Stumble,
Back from the Union,
Drunk on exhaustion,
The night lights
Make the frost seem
Less like diamonds
And more like thousands
Of LED lights
Shining brightly
Making me stumble more.

And thousands of thoughts
Race through my head
As I picture the lonely Saturday
In Barnes and Noble
I considered,
And the plans my father made.

Why won't my laundry
Get done at earlier hours?

There were times
When I didn't hate myself
On any level.

I hardly remember them.

Especially now,
Mid-growth,
I can hardly see the sky
For the thorns.

But I know it's there.
I've seen the blue.
And one day
I'll make roses bloom.

Until then,
I'll keep pulling thorns.

Water Fills the Glass

Water fills the shape
Of the glass it's poured into,
And so when the glass
Disappears
The water will have to make
Its own shape
Though it will always carry
The imprint of the glass
Within its memory.

It's embarassing
How much reminds me
Of him,
And yet it's
How it should be.
His name is naturally
The one I reach for
On Douglas Adam's birthday
Or after Nerf Russian Roulette.
And it's a good thing
I can predict his reactions
Since he's taking distance
To heal.
But I hope he knows
That banjos don't make me smile
Just because they're banjos.

It's strange
To think that,
For the last time,
You've taken off
A pair of shoes
You've worn so well
And worn so long.

Five years
Is a lifetime
For shoes,
Especially dancing shoes
That have seen the stage
And countless
Formal events.

And now,
They are likely done,
Tucked away
After years of valor.
So I must say goodbye
To things I didn't know
I loved until now.

I shall say nothing.
I am excellent at keeping secrets,
Holding my ace of spades
Until the last moment.

I will share my own pain,
Perhaps,
Tempered with the distilling water
Called fear and pride.

But you can bet your last dollar
That I shall guard your woes,
While I try to heal them,
Until the day I die.

Until My Body Breaks

I have two bruises on my ankles,
One apiece.
My right hand is scratched up
And both are clammy,
Smelling of metal.
My spine creaks with each breath,
Adjusting with each take of air.
My shoulders, quads ache
Along with the pads of my feet.

But I want to keep running,
Around and around
Until my lungs burst,
My body breaks,
And soul stops bleeding.

I don't want to take this exam,
But this too shall pass.
I'm stuggling,
But this too shall pass.
I'm fighting,
But this too shall pass.
I'm fading,
But I too shall pass.

I wake up
And swallow down tears
Because there are things to be done,
Problems to solve,
And there's enough water
On the ground already.
I will not
Drown in my own ocean.

At 9:15,
I broke my own heart.
Shattered it in two.

I've never been good
At cutting things.
My wrapping paper has never been straight.
The thread and yarn once trimmed
Would be just as frayed as before.

So it's no surprise that rather than a clean break,
We splintered.

But you don't have to be happy
To be happy you're alive
And shattered, unique edges
Make the puzzle easier to put together.

I guess.

I hope.

I pray.

Fury of Winter

The fury of winter
Blazes outside
As I am curled up
Warm and safe indoors
With tea
And good company.

Yet I cannot help
But notice how the weather
Reflects my inmost mood,
However bright and cheerful
My visage and yellow socks
Make me seem.

I'm losing my best friend
(Who's more)
To pain and conflict
And problems that can't
Be resolved to any
Semblance of satisfaction.

Oh, forgive me
For bringing the storm
I see outside into our hearts.
It will be a long time
Before my muse
Loses ice blue eyes.

I'm trying to sew up
The gaping holes
I'm shooting
Into my own heart.

But it seems
As though I end up
Ripping out the stitches
Again and again.

I can't find a way
To sooth the aches
In all souls.

And so the hole
Grows wider, deeper,
Larger, and sadder.

There are many cracks.
I can sense a break coming.
I'm so scared of it.

What do you do
When your head and heart
Disagree?

Which do you choose?
Reason or passion?
For a world of pure reason
Is cold and unfeeling,
Yet a world of pure passion
Becomes chaos and violence.

And when it's a matter of the heart?
Do you trust the heart?
Or discount its vote since,
After all,
No man may be judge in his own case?

Deciding between them
Should not be this hard.
But then again,
I'm not sure what they're saying.

I flew out
So swiftly
So final
And yet I want
To crawl back,
Limping,
Bleeding,
Crying,
For what reasons
I don't know.

Because I can't
Actually be that cruel?
Because I just
Can't sleep
And for so long
You were my refuge?
Are my refuge?

Did I destroy that
In my own pain
That I can't even
Understand?

I'm sorry.
And I'm sorry
That I will sit here
Doing nothing but
Waiting
Until I think you have
Gone yourself.

And then,
I return.
But there is nothing there.
And so the loneliness
And guilt crush in.

For Andrew

Keep it real,
You banana-wielding fiend.
You're an urban explorer,
A tough mudder.
Now,
Pound it!

He is so studious
And works quite hard
But always finds the time
To listen to me
Or to others.

And she is so bubbly,
So bright and beautiful.
She is helpful
And sweet yet she can be
Sneaky and conniving.

They're my pair
Of dirty blonds.

Honest as the Day is Long

Speak it how it is,
Tell it how it was writ.
Be as straight an arrow,
Honest as the day is long
And the night is cool.

Be how you are,
Mes amis,
Keep breaking those hearts
You never realized
Wanted yours.

Honesty, bluntness,
It keeps one part of the world
Sane,
And lets me feel a little more
Inspired to stop living the world
As a stage.

In the Secret Parts of Fortune

The pair of them
Are as honest
As thieves.
As trustable
As adders fanged.

Or are they?
Are the more
Trapped like mice?
Lost as bread crumbs?

Poor fools,
Crawling between earth
And heaven,
As cunning minds
Draw the noose around them.

Snow keeps coming.
Little by little
It piles up
And drives us
Farther and farther indoors.

I don't want to go
Anywhere today.
Which is handy,
Since I have a paper
To bust out.

To work!

She is Joy

She is joy.

I have seen her
Sad and tired,

But she is joy.

Her bright smile
And winning laugh
Linger and warm
The heart long after
The sight and sound
Are gone.

She is joy.

And though I wore
A yellow shirt today,
She was the sun
For this cloudy afternoon.

She is joy.

Le Chat

Il me confond.
Mais c'est naturel,
Il est comme un chat.

Regardez son posture,
Son forme,
Avec grace et tension,
Relaxée mais plein de pouvoir.

Il me confond.

Danseur, chanteur,
Guerrier
Qui est intelligent
Et sait la musique sacrée
Et des anciennes prières.
Il me confond.

Le chat,
Il est un bon homme sur toute.
Un vrai bon homme.
Et "bon homme,"
Ca veut dire
"Bon ami,"
N'est pas?

I opened up
A dark corner
Ever so slighty
On the cold,
Wintery walk home.

Because poetry
Was on the menu
This conversation
So naturally
I needed to talk of mine.

And while there
Is such light
In many poems
That spill from me
There is also
A darkness few see.

Snow Shenanigans

What a foe is time.

He marched on
While we laughed, danced,
And played in the snow
And on ice
As we acted like
The crazy freshmen we are.

He pressed on
And I already had to say
Goodbye once due to his passing
Though I came back.

But I can see already
Time ticking nearer
To the day when
I have to say "adieu"
To laughing around a fire,
Around a laptop,
Around a tripped friend.

Time gives the gift,
At least,
Of making these moments seem
Like they can never end.

Snow

To walk across these white diamonds,
To tread where none else have trod,
Seems akin to a sin
In these humble eyes.

My browned, blackening footsteps
Disrupt the gentle and near magical
Array of crystals over
The easy slope.

But 'tis no matter.
As I walk along
Diamonds still fall en masse
To diligently erase my trace.

I don't want to be alone
As I feel the weight of change.

(I got so addicted
To having you when I am weak,
That now becoming weak is easy
But finding someone
To make me strong again
Is so difficult)

I'm just
So
tired.

Back to school,
I can hardly wait.
And yet I can.

The people I know
Tear me in two ways
And I am pulled
In a new direction
Every time I blink.

So good bye to family
And dear friends
And hello to the ones
I'm just getting to know.

Show Choir

It's a world
I'm shut out of
And I hate it.

Because it was my life
My home
My place of refuge,
Self-discovery,
And self-escape.

it's gone
and i can't get it back

I don't know what to do
'Cause I sometimes feel
Like we don't talk.
But I suppose I should
Take some time
And think and take stock.

See I'm missing discussions
Of Star Trek, spaghetti westerns,
And the 39 Articles
(and missing you).
I'm missing discussions over
Minor not major premises.

I suppose I figure out
On what major premises we differ
Before I go have a good cry.
But I'm already headed that way
So I might as well.

Happy New Year,
Mes amis.
May the fates smile on you.

May you learn much,
See more,
And always grow in wisdom.

May your goals be reached,
Surpassed,
So that you keep moving to excellence.

Take a cup of kindness
For auld lang syne,
For the sake of times gone by.