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.