The year ends
and I almost contemplate failure,
the things I nearly left undone,
the things I still have to do.
The year ends,
and I think of what will soon be done,
the things not yet assigned
that I can't wait to complete.

The pressure to write,
to fill in blanks,
That I might complete
The only resolution I've only been able to complete
for multiple years in a row.
To write more than last year,
than the year before that,
It gets a little harder
As life changes
and a style drifts away
from what worked so well before.

Driving all day
To leave family behind.
It's been lovely,
to see faces I only see
once a year-
twice if I'm lucky-
And to know the future meetings
Are growing less in number.

But this is how the world works.
You must work
To keep people in your life.
So we'll drive all ten hours
To spend one precious weekend
Sitting at the same table
As those that share our last name
and family tree.

They're here-
Or I'm there-
Gathered together
To be family
And enjoy our holidays.
The gift exchange hardly matters
Since we're together.

Family to look after me,
Family to care for in turn,
This is Christmas.
As we celebrate a Light,
A birth from long ago,
Love shines onward.

Too tired,
And ill
To be festive
Even as I long
To be joyous
And triumphant.
I should sleep,
Eat well,
But I don't
Have the energy.

I miss being desired,
That little touch
That let me be special
Just for a moment.

I miss being wanted
And longed for,
Some one somebody
Missed, even just
From time to time.

I have little courage
To desire my own company.
Could you possibly
Show me how?

I'm sick,
But I'm home.
The house is just for me
As everyone's at work
Except coughing little me.
It feels like a reversal,
With my little sister
Away at school
But not me.

Write,
write,
Fit in the poems you must
Before the time runs out.
Each year,
You need to write more,
Keep trying to think up
new ways to say old things
even if you fail,
and miserably.
Hopefully I can strech
the poetic muscles
And become better each year,
writing more with each turn
around the sun.

Driving home,
ill and tired,
leaving pieces of my heart
and broken memories.
I am battered
by a semester that proved
too much for me.
Icarus fell,
but must live
with the shame.

Notice,
I noticed!
what's in the lit magazine.
Notice,
I notice!
The names of every scene.

How similar they are,
As you flip through the page.
How similar they are,
'as if they were friends' you say.

It's as if they know each other,
Their nuances and strengths.
It's as if they know one another-

and it's cute how the 'editors' list matches the 'table of contents.'

I can't do this.
I am a failure.
What sort of
Student am I
That I so easily
Procrastinate
And waste time
Needed to write
Papers, to study?
I am a mess, a
Failure that is
sure.

Maybe after rest,
A chance to sleep and eat well,
The words will come back.

Surrounded by friends
New and slightly older,
Gifted food and shelter
For one simple weekend,
Gratitude comes easily.

The shortest drive
taken to a friend's house.
It feels strange,
To drive such a way
To such a place
and have it take so little time.

The words dried up,
Lost and stolen
In the mad dash
As the semester ends.
I hardly sleep,
I hardly eat,
Consumed by papers
And anxiety that I
Cannot escape,
Not with the current path.

As the stars shone
In patches overhead,
And snow fell
In graceful dives,
Men sang.
It was romantic,
And lovely,
And it banished sadness
For a little while.

Haunted Without Scars

You still haunt me.

I'm walking through the snow,
With cold wrapped around me
And crystalline flakes brushing my face,
and you haunt me.

I imagine seeing you again.
For some reason,
I'm back in the city where we were.
Maybe I've just pulled up to a red light.
Perhaps I'm reading in some cafe.
But there's a prickling sensation.
Without knowing why,
I look up.

There you are.

You're standing a ways off,
Staring at me.

We don't say a word.

Our faces may be the same,
But they still show the myriad
Of changes you and I weathered
While apart.

We don't say a word
About how we're different
From who the other knew
But yet still unchanged at the core.
This new just didn't show yet.

We don't say a word,
But in that silence,
We still smile.
We share forgiveness,
For the other and for ourselves.

Maybe we start to open our mouths,
To say anything,
Or just "hello."

But the light turns green.
And I drive away.
I leave you again.
But this time,
I don't add a scar.

I stood as the snow fell
In slow, steady drips
At the edge of the deep hole.

It once was a house,
A place with memories
That I was not party to.

Now it is nothing,
Nothing but melancholy
As snow falls.

So I alone attend the funeral
Of a home I never knew
That is nothing but a pile of bricks
And a hole that reaches down to sorrow.

Will you love me if I am me?
Will you love me
As I reveal the bits about me
That I hate,
Which is a lot,
If I'm honest.

I change my face,
I give myself so many masks,
Because I don't trust people,
I don't trust them to like me.

Why should they?
I don't.

I love the cold.
It makes me feel alive.
The hurt of deep cold
snags my ears
and keeps me tethered.
I love the cold.
I feel so human
as I search for warmth.

Her Mass was beautiful,
said for a departed soul
too kind to have empty pews.
I sat shoulder to shoulder
with people I hardly knew
as we grieved over a woman
who had the gifts
to bring a city together.

I will miss her,
Her smile,
Her laughter.
Still I can see her
Every time I do what she did
And serve the community.

When your body betrays
You are cut to the bone.
For that which is the most
Physical and obvious
Symbol of who you are
Is now trying to kill itself.
Perhaps it is but a misguided
Attempt at salvation,
But all the same
The terror remains.

My heart is lead,
As if burning a hole
Slowly but surely
Both out from my chest
And down through me.
I can finally breathe again,
The rhythms reset
To ones that sustain life.
My legs can hold my weight.

Only my mind is left,
The last stand of torment
And pain.

The night wears on.

I am still awake.

Constant

The thing about growing up
is that as you become more and more
aware of the world
you become more and more
aware of loss.
It's so hard
to tell yourself
that there are more things
constant in your life
than being alive.
There is family.
There are friends.
Faith and love and
the books you read as child
still remain.
There is more constant
in your world
than just you.

"You can stay,"
He whispers in my ear,
half asleep with his arms curled around me
while the movie plays.

"Please stay."
There's no desperation,
just a simple request
from a man almost gone
and too warm
to want to sleep alone.

I have almost drifted off myself,
curled in his lap.
His hands,
his voice,
they almost persuade me.

"Come on,"
Says a different voice,
an awake voice,
and my roommate pulls me to my feet.



When I hug him good-night,
he lingers.

She (Edited)

"You, poet,
What is your muse?"

She,
She is the snow falling through the lamplight
As night curls around the world.
She is soft bubble
Of the sliver of a stream
As it winks down a mountain.
She is beloved pair of Irish 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 is 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.

Crazy Like Armor

Wear your crazy like armor
And no one can ever hurt you.
Use it as a shield
To keep everyone else away.
Because if you already have them
Pushed back,
When the others stop their
tap-tap-tapping
On your fragile shell
And pull back,
It won't hurt so much.

Should you go
tap-tap-tapping
on someone else's door,
Just remember their crazy
Probably doesn't look like yours.

Wear your crazy like armor.
Everyone else already is.

Tastes

If you fall in love with
And lose
Someone with the same tastes
As you,
Who shows you places
You come to love,
When they are gone
You'll stand where
Once your tongue held joy
And all you will taste of
Is ashes and blood.

Don't treat a girl as if she's special
Unless you really mean it.
She'll believe your actions
Over your words.
Unless you are truly interested,
Don't treat her different
Than any sister you've ever had.
She'll take every gesture
To heart and count them up.
She'll be confused, yes.
It's the gross flaw hiding
In "actions speak louder than words."
Don't lead her on,
Even by accident.
Watch your actions
And guard her heart.
She's trying to do the same,
Trying not to break hearts.
Please give her the same courtesy.

She always chooses the best music,
Music that reaches into my chest
And dances along with my heart.
My mood lifts and I feel amazing.
She is a badass
And I love it so much.

He's led me
On this roller coaster
For far too long.
Now I'm am
A bitter mess
Angrily writing
If only so that
I won't cry.

I'm carrying a mug of tea home.
I've definitely spilled some on my hands,
Even down my pant leg.
Sure,
It burns,
But there's something about the steam
And how it's curling up into the cold air.
Forget the pain.
The beauty was worth it.

Whene'er I sing
"The Parting Glass,"
I know I've made myself a liar.

For I sing that all the harm
I've ever done
Was only ever to me.

But I think of a boy
With ice blue eyes
And hair as fine as silk

And know I dealt
A painful,
Parting,
blow.

I'm so lost,
displaced,
without any drive
to get back to
where I was.

I want to go,
And be free.

But the desire to succeed
is weighted down by
something black and cold.

The night blurs.
I'm not sure in what order
Everything happened.
But that's how I always am.
A little application
Of bourbon and ale
Didn't exacerbate habits.

The laughter of friends
Overpowers any memory
Of the semi-educational show
That was playing in the background.
I was much more interested
In the smiles painting
Each present human's face.

I remember the end in vivid detail.
All of us,
Turned toward the screen finally.
I remember losing my fingers
In his hair
When he sat at my feet
And leaned back.
These absentminded movements
Became intentional
When he leaned into them like a cat.
I remember when I first
Brushed his lips on accident,
And how he wordlessly
Invited me to do it again.
My hands drifted down his neck,
Across his shoulders and back.
I hope I provided some relief.

I remember when,
As one hand returned
To draw across his face once more,
He kissed my fingers,
Drawing them between his lips
Like one might a lover.

Funny How the Times Change

a teetotaler
and pacifist
gave me this mug
and i filled it
with ale
and tears.

I Cannot Take from You

You do not get my energy.
Not anymore.
Not when I am already
So tired.
      How can I spend such a valuable resource
               so liberally on you?

You give little back,
Only smiles and laughter.

When the darkness comes
You are far away,
       insulated by your books and schoolwork
                                         in a tower where I dare not cast
                  my little cries.
You say you want to give me time
But how can I ask for it
When you seem barely free
                                             to ask for mine?

I want to give,
And give without restraint.
But to do so,
                    I have to take.

For whatever reason,
I cannot take from you.

I want him to confront me.
I want just a hint
That he might notice
More than the part I play.
I want a confrontation
Because those always lead
To character development
And stunning revelations.
I want him to stop
Believing the white lies
And to throw them back
At my deceiving face.

I want him to care.

I want his love.

But I can't ask for it.

I'm not good enough to do so.

A cat who knows that he is king
Can hardly be displaced.
His meows are commands
Not requests as he winds his way
Around your legs and into your heart.
This stray that walked onto the porch
From who-knows-where
Has so ingratiated himself
You are sad to see him go.

Goodnight my almost lover.
This time,
I think we almost had each other,
Almost caught in glances,
Glancing smiles
That ricochet between us.

Goodnight my almost lover.
Tonight
You stayed my fears.
You made the night day
Lighting with too many stars
The start of joy.

He was so wonderful
That night -
Like any night really -
In his finery
And I in mine.

How we danced -
As if there was
No one else -
Will stay
A pleasant memory.

My greatest smiles,
All my joy
And the sense
Of being carefree,
That was reserved
For when I was
In his arms
And his arms alone.

I would rather be here,
Surrounded by people I like
And enjoy
Without any pressure to be different.
I can be so weird
Because they are, too.
Let me stay.

I do not know my history.
I do not know my past.
The faded lines
That run up into the years
Are lines I cannot draw.
I cannot trace them
Nor can I name them.

I am adrift,
Cut off from tradition.
These are things
I long to know
But the people who knew them
Are dead.

Tar

Thank you for sitting with me.
Thank you for leaving your own fun
To talk with pathetic me
And drink tea.
Admittedly, the tea was awesome,
As was our conversation.
Rather than anything else,
Ridding my sorrows in tea,
Rolling them away with friends,
That's better than going home alone
And drinking something else,
Ruining who I am in the process.

'Tis better to be alone
Than lonely.
What improvement it would be
To sit in solitude
Beneath a tree,
Shielded from rain,
Rather than stand
By one's self
In a room crowded with people.
Yes,
I know what I prefer.
It may seem strange,
It may seem sterile
And harsh
To so flatly walk away
In order to sit in the cold.
But I would rather abandon
The crowd
Than you abandon me.

Sitting alone
In a dark house,
I'm the only one awake,
Obviously.
I close my mouth,
Open my ears,
And listen
To this old home's
Old tales.
Each creak of the floor
Was once the thud
Of young, quick feet.
Every surge in the pipes
Once was tear
Of any kinds.
The fan quickly whirls,
Too speedy for sound
But the drone
From electricity.
This house is too old
To ever be silent.
This house is too old
To make me feel alone. 

back where i belong at last.
where people i love
live and learn
right along with me.

Endings

Endings don't just clear away what is over. 
They also end unfinished middles,
and just-barely-begun's. 
Endings are sad that way. 

Yet at the same time, 
if nothing ever ended, 
there would be no room for things to get started.

So here's to endings,
And the half-baked dreams you're still thinking up.

May your every ending be a blessing.

Le cimetière des Errancis

They tell me that
« Errancis »
can mean
"wandering"
in the same breath-
basically-
that they tell me
the long gone
dug up this
cimetière
and moved it
to the catacombs
with no plaque.
They forget
to tell me
just how the past-
all the lingering
imprints
commonly called
ghosts-
are supposed to
find their home.

Ne pas errer
sur la rue du Miromesnil.
Errance,
les estropiés vous accompagneront.

She's leaving me.
Slowly but surely,
She packs her things
So she can leave,
So she can go to uni.
She's leaving me.
Swiftly and surely.

She's got gray in her tail.
There's white on her nose
And spaced about her whiskers.
She still acts like she's two.
She is so full of life.
I will miss her when I'm gone.

What Good is Spilling Blood?

What good is spilling blood?
It will not grow a thing.
What good is plucking feathers?
No harvest held a wing.

What good is sowing salt?
Seeds do not root for dares.
Most dangerous of all of course
Is to leave your soul quite bare.

A Protestant Alone in Mass

I sit in the back,
Not because I want to flee,
But because I'm less visible
When I don't stand up
To take communion.

To be honest,
I sit in awe the entire time.
The traditions and the beauty
Of the service wash over me
Each visit without fail.

Still there remains
The feeling that I don't belong,
Not here,
In this sacred ancient space.

I stay on the edges,
Looking in.

Cats may look on kings;
Yes all of us know that.
But who do you think
Was the first to say,
"A king cannot look on a cat?"

A drought of rain,
Broken by storms.

Poems lost that will not come,
Summoned by sleep.

A new month.
New chances.
Time for new sleep,
New tasks,
And eventually,
New classes.

Tired.
So tired.
With no energy
For writing.
How can this be?
I feel empty
Without poems.

The season is beautiful.
I'll miss the boys of summer
When autumn brings sunset.
For now,
I will enjoy the beauty
Of friendship and sights.

His arm coils and springs,
Fist sharply curled into a sphere
Until the last moment
As it releases the ball.
It snaps back with the catch,
Rebound pulling it back,
Rewinding for yet another throw.

I'll never write a poem to this spark,
But I'll wax poetic on the unborn flame.

Spiraling Frame

He leans forward in the chair,
Shoulder-blade curved like a bow
As it presses away from the curl
Of his spine like a lazy cat
With his arms composed of waves,
Made of slopes that roll onto each other
Overlapping and easing together-

He straightens his spine,
But the concaves and convexes remain,
Scattered over his spiraling frame.

I miss my friends
With a deep pang
That nothing but
Their company
Can resolve.

I had something to say,
Yet because I did not write it down,
I forgot it
In the shifting of tabs
And the passage of time.

Stretched out on the roof,
Staring at the stars,
Torn between terror and awe
As one foot bleeds,
The knees sting,
And fireworks in a cacaphony
All about the neighborhood.

Forcing out the words
That I can get better,
Stay in shape.
Maybe these poems
Will fall on their faces
And I'll be embarrassed
I ever put down these words,
But when I write
A better poem,
I'll be glad
I practiced now.

I love the summer sun.
While I might not love to be outside,
I love the way it warms the soul.
It's heat remains long past the night.
It overwhelms beyond belief,
But drives us on.

Too much desperation
To clamp down
Each time I think
Of returning to school

Do not fall in love
With poets,
Or even half-formed ones.

They'll leave their trace
On everything.

Just when you think
You're clean,
All the memories
And daydreamed visions
Roar back to you.

What's worse,
Is to have loved and lost one
And to be torn apart
Trying to find another.

Ode to the I-80

You are the road
That leads me home
No matter which way I go.

To head west,
To follow you all the way
To the Pacific Coast,
Is to follow you back
To my past,
To lost peace.
You lead me to what I lost
And what I'll never have again,
Though if I had the time,
You could lead me
To something new
Out of the old I buried there.

You are the road
That leads me home
No matter which way I go.

To drive east,
To follow you to the lakes,
To what feels north,
Is to follow you ahead,
To the future,
To loves yet undiscovered.
You lead me to friends still forged
And lived to be learned,
Though I am mainly taught the past.
You could lead me
To something ancient
Buried in sights still unseen.

You are the road
That leads me home
No matter which way I go.

Whether east or west,
To follow you to the fields,
To lands between,
Is to follow you constantly,
To family,
To a place I am always welcome.
You lead me to hearthfires, beds,
And meals kept warm just for me,
Though I cannot stay.
You could never lead me
To something permanent
For I buried that chance long ago.

You are the road
That leads me home
No matter which way I go.
I will follow you through
Snow and wind and rain.
I am always waiting,
Always yearning,
To travel your paths again.

Lifeguards have the sun in their skin.

We slowly become
That golden color,
Holding a hand over our arms

To feel the light radiation
Of warmth, of heat,
That has buried itself
In our skin.

Father's Day

Occasionally it is quite embarrassing
To put forth my thoughts
And get them corrected and improved.
When it is my father,
Who polishes my opinions
That I might better share them,
It's still awkward for
I want to impress him and
Make him proud.
Yet it's not so bad
When its a man that cares
Who fixes up my faulty reasoning.
I'm glad he can do this
And hope it will continue.

I have letters,
A growing collection
Of words from friends
Who care enough
To take the time to write.
I care so I mail them
Pieces of my days
That they might still know me
Even as the summer drags on.

The corner of my eye sticks
Weighted with the art of eyeliner.
The kohl smokes about the lower lid,
A mudge of beauty
O never understood until now.
The precise wing
And delicate lines
I drew with such care
Still remain even if wear has
Softened their drama.

Caught in a Dream

I am caught in a dream,
Captivated by a fantasy,
One where his fingers are not
Wrapped around a bow or the
Neck of cello
Drawing out sweet, low melodies
With slow, gentle strokes;
No,
His slender fingers are twining
Throw my hair,
Caressing with each smooth motion
As they get lost
Wandering about my fallen curls.
He's not calmly conversing
From a respectable distance;
His breath is ghosting my skin,
Leaving a trail of shivers in its wake.
He's close enough that
My lips find his,
That I can press my fingertips,
My mouth even,
To his scars and he can do the same
To mine.

I am lost in the idea
That he might want to be
Close to me.

Images I Wish I Could Create

I've spent so much time
Around academics
And scrolling through art
That to see someone
With well-defined muscles,
Not not unattractively so,
Is like looking at a living sketch.
My eyes see this living being,
And my mind fills in
The extra scratches of pen
Carrying off past the edges
And filling in the lower layers.

The shoulders move.
All I see is the basic blocks,
The simplest ball-and-socket joint,
Rotating through page after page
Or carefully drawn lines.

I cannot take my own pen to paper
And make a creature come to life,
So I scratch at words
To capture their essence
As my eyes break them down
Into the images I wish I could create.

Storm clouds roll in,
Swift as I've ever seen.
Then in sets awe,
With a little terror,
At the speed of the wind.
As soon as I am able,
I fly home
With all the quickness
Nature left over for me.

Pieces of my Days

His name is still the one
Written on my lips.
It's his image still
Etched on my heart.
But I am slowly,
Bit by bit,
Filling him off.
And as I file him away,
I know it's for
My own health,
Yet also because
There's another name
Painting my life with
Swaths of his colors,
Initialing pieces of my days.

Captivated and caught
By beauty I want to deny.
This year eases the weight
I once labored under.
It still rests upon me
Yet this year I can smile.
Perhaps it is because
I have been taught to sass,
Taught to speak up,
By friends braver than I.

I'm craving his words.
I'm craving some escape
From this reality I live in.
I am overcome,
Even two weeks out,
With the desire to return
Back to school and classes.
Even there,
As I am driven slowly insane
By paper after paper,
At least that repetition
Is not drudgery
And leads me towards
A higher goal.

For fear of seeming desperate,
I hold my tongue.
I stay back
And wither under the weight
Of a job I can no longer stand.

A hawk cried.
Even I,
     Sitting halfway
     Between indoors
     And out,
Could not help
But feel my spirit
                                 Lift
With the keen
Of a sky-borne predator.  

I was alright.
And then in a flash,
I wasn't.
All that could have been
All that was,
Hit me suddenly
And without warning.
Pain washed over me,
Tinged with sadness.
Yet through some effort,
Some power
From some where,
I turned all that hurt
Into a bittersweet happy.
Don't ask how,
For I'm not sure
How I can smile
While looking at a face
That's lost to me
Smiling with another.

It takes a bravery
To stand up and say
"I am grown.
I will solve this.
I will try my hardest."
It will still hurt
To force yourself
Into a new mold,
A new way to think
And act as someone mature.
But hey,
Now I have two
New job interviews.
This maturity thing
Totes paid off. ;)

Let your words roll over me.
I want to be wooed,
And wooed by you.
I'll stitch you a conversation,
A poem,
If you like,
But you'll have to grow
The sentences yourself.

Home,
Where I can scratch out letters
And cook food
And sleep without stress.
So lovely.

It's so hard not to send him words
Anytime I think of them.
It's hard to hold on to
Slips of coverversation
For it wouldn't be polite
To merely blurt everything out.

The storm has raged and faded,
The green sky turned to black.
I remember the rustling of the trees
And the roaring of the wind.
Though I do not wish
That the storm had stayed,
I still miss it now that it's gone.

Details

Let me remember every detail.
I glanced and stared at him enough
To draw him again with words,
Though this time
I cannot be so poetical.

I love that his hair is growing long again,
That the curls are forming again
Giving texture,
Depth to dark and short waves.
I want to touch
The single outlying curl
At the base of his neck.
It's tantalizing.

He hasn't shaved recently,
For the smallest frame
Is forming around his mouth,
And my attention was there already,
What with his clever tongue
Talking, of course.

After removing his tie,
He undid a button.
Now with each stretch of his shoulders
My eyes are called to the smooth skin
Shielding tendons of his neck,
And the single freckle there.
He also rolled up his sleeves.
When he lifted the heavy box,
Muscles flexing with work,
I think my heart flipped.

Maybe I'm ashamed of my intense perusal,
My cataloging of these details and more
(Like how he reels back with laughter
Or how joyously slender yet strong his hands are).
But maybe I'm not that embarrassed
To revel in a wondrous creation of God's.

I don't want to go.
I don't want to leave
This place,
These people,
Sitting in a living room
And chatting until
Your eyes shut unwittingly.
Yet all things
Must move toward their end.
So here I sit,
Immortalizing these moments
And praying I'll find new ones.

Perhaps
It is high time
I banished these affections
And finally
quit.

I always prefer the background characters.
(Though I also always love forefront players.)
They're the little touches of art,
The details that make it real.
It's their attention to the little things
That make the image reality.

I look forward
To my days alone.
Finally,
I'll be able to rest
From these complex
Emotions
That do nothing
But make me
Hate myself.

Why does he have the power
To reduce me
To a lovesick,
Emotional mess?
It's quite unfair.
At least I can hide it,
And hope he's as good
At hiding the tumult
As I am.

Name the Star Wars Characters

1. He is cut not from cloth
But rock,
His mind the same,
All sharp edges and strength.
The one your mother
Warned you of,
He smells of adventure,
Of sweat, sex, and the stars.

2. He is wisdom
That will grow wisdom.
He is a man
And yet a lion,
Bright like spring.
His hard edges
Are softened like any teacher's.

3. Loyal to his bones,
Though he lacks them,
He'll quietly be there whenever
You ever need him,
For anything.
He's always been there
And how could he not be?
He will never die.

4.  She was strong.
She was sharp as knife
Yet cut herself.
A warrior armed with words
And armies
She still fades like a flower
Caught in oppressive heat.

5. He is a foal,
A storm in eyes too young.
His spirit boils with rebellion
And cools,
Tempered by time and strife.
He is Atlas,
Straining not against the sky
But the whole universe.

The Finished Draft

You look like the finished draft,
Practiced and primed,
Almost unattainable,
Yet still close enough to touch.
You're the twitching smile
Hiding puns, hilarity, and punk rock
Behind a veneer of dignity
That is hardly fake.
You appear as polished as glass,
Sharp and strong
But without any of the sudden shatters.
To my eyes,
You are a willow tree,
As poetic and flexible as any known
While you grow tall and sturdy
Up towards the heavens.

There is so much talent around me,
My heart is full to bursting.
The musicians and actors
Ply their crafts to perfection
While artists capture the world
In frozen frames to keep.
I humbly place my art before you
And ask you not to throw it out.

To exhaused
to bother doing anything,
and here i am
wasting more time.
why play the fool?
maybe it's all that's left.

As I glance at the daffodils
That yesterday were bright yellow
Yet today are faded,
I am reminded of the old truth
"Nothing gold can stay."
For flowers all fade,
Gathered by Time
To be kept in an ageless,
Aging bouquet.

I'm wrapped in love
I do not deserve.
How could I ever
Be worthy of the
Unconditional love
Of a perfect God?
But that doesn't matter,
Not now,
Not when His Son
Paid the price
And made me worthy.

Running a race against time,
Hoping to get the papers written
And enough done
That when the laptop screen dies
I'll survive.

I don't count.
I never felt it so hard as now.
I understand all the same.
She's a better singer,
Better musician,
So I know why I don't count.
He's not said hello though,
Not said my name.
Can I just disappear now?
Just vanish into nothing?
For that would be me
Should his opinion shape the world.
I suppose I should be glad
That he is not the end-all.
Yet in this moment,
Lacking skills he values,
I wouldn't mind not being.

Smaug the Hella (For Lauren)

There once was a whiny little bitch of a dragon
Named Smaug the Stupendous.
(He, of course, preferred Smaug the Hella)
And one day, his favorite meal came knocking at his door
(Well, second favorite.
Dwarves are #1 followed closely by humans).

Now, it is still argued to this day
Whether the man wanted to be a hero
Or if he was just stupid.

But when Smaug opened one wide eye,
The human drew his sword and spoke thus:

"Oh mighty dragon,
Your reign of terror is over.
Your mountain of gold I claim.
I also claim your life,
But if you safely carry me to my home
I will let you keep flying."

The dragon chuckled.
"Bitch, my teeth are razors,
My claws are spears,
And my wings are a fucking hurricane!
I ain't no damn carousel!"

The human backed up,
Only now worried.
"Easy there, Sparky.
I just wanted to give you some exercise.
Since, you know,
You've gotten fat."

"You say 'fat'
But all I hear is 'fabulous.'
You made the mistake of thinking
You could take on Smaug the Hella.
I am the greatest dragon ever!
The gold is all mine!"
 
"The universe doesnt revolve around you."

Smaug had only one reply.
"Liar, liar, corpse on fire."

I will burn
Like fire
And roar
As a lioness.
You can't convince me
Otherwise.

What I Cannot Do

Why must we stare
Into the face of our inadequacy?
Into the visage of our failures?
It's not fair,
But life is not.
Later I will kill him,
Stab that forgetting butterfly
Because I can't bear this pain.
Maybe I'll rip off his wings
And laugh.
He forgot me
But can't be bothered
To erase the searing imprint
He left in me.

I wonder what happens
When a trusting person lets
A missionary kid
Into her inner circle,
When he never can put down roots
And she can never uproot hers?

I wish he could have been there,
When the world crashed down.
I wish someone
Could have reached for me
Before the moment turned deadly
And pulled me back to safety.
So when my mind betrayed me,
Drawing my lungs as cruel allies,
I could either breathe too little too fast
Or not at all.
Neither was chosen.
My call for help went answered,
Yet I still wish I had not needed to call.

Some Friday night.
Sitting, covered in homework and projects,
In a room not my own,
No dancing to be done,
And everyone in the same place as me.
I chose this though,
Chose this above all else.
Perhaps this will be good for me.

I am no trickster.
I have no mind for pranks.
That's how it goes,
I suppose.
So I'll not even
Attack him with a paper fish,
Just sit next to him
And cram for this history exam
I'll wake up to tomorrow.

(And that's what you get for the 500th poem)

How wonderful it is
To feel giddy again,
To almost lose myself
In youthful joy.

He is a hero,
More so than I.
For while I too lost
A pint of blood today,
By choice,
He could remain on his feet.
He could lend a helping hand
And lead me back to my room
To drink,
To eat,
To rest,
And most of all,
To be well.

When he knocked at the door,
I offered him a cup of tea
And sent him politely away.
You see,
He asked for entrance to my heart.
But it was already occupied.

There is such joy in history to be found.
That rabbit trail you chase
Suddenly giving way to all you desired
Is the greatest feeling.
Now I'm reading the document
The started the cloth guild of Bristol
"in the 7th year of the reign of King Henry, the fourth since the Conquest"
And I cannot contain my happiness.

Why can I not have
The arms I seek?
Why do I not allow
Myself the comfort?
Why must I despise me?

Un pays d'occasion

Un pays d'occasion.
C'est les Étas-Unis.
Voilà un pays
Où un peut faire ce qu’on veut
On peut être presque toute
Ce que tu veux.
C'est un pays d'occasion.
Le peuple américain

Est formé par les peuples du monde.

Nous sommes fatigues,

Les pauvres, les faims,

Les âmes qui veulent la liberté

Mais ne le trouvent pas.

A Race Against Death to Cook Beans

It's easy for me to laugh.
I find such depth of simple joy
In so many things
I will live forever
Should laughter really add life.

Perhaps that is why I seek his company.
It so easy for him to make me laugh.
I can feel my days stretching onward
With every silly pun
And blood-sugar induced insanity.

I will make him laugh, too... 
It was a dark and stormy night,
It was a bright and balmy day,
(At the same time!)
When the dragon came to call!
DWAIN was large.
DWAIN was fearsome.
DWAIN also liked to take long walks on the beach, save his red M&M's for the Anti-Pacifist that lived on top of the mountain drinking the dew of the universe, and eat those little chocolate candies that are covered in nuts or something and come wrapped in that gold foil that everyone hates to rip so it takes super long to unwrap them but it is always gloriously worth it and don't try to say it's not.
Now, the Dragon Without An Interesting Name and his gummy worm soldiers
(Don't laugh,
They're scary,
Even only if you can't eat more than one at once)
Were on the hunt.
They victimized the villages!
They terrorized the towns!
They catastrophized the cities!
Could their hunger ever be satisfied?

But one brave and handsome traveler
Stood up before the fleet.
His face was washed;
His hair was brushed;
His suit was clean and neat
(His trusty iron frying pan
Lay at his dusty feet).

"Are you a Burglar?" shouted the giant dragon
(He hadn't quite learned to use his inside voice).
"I'm too tall to be a burglar," replied the traveler.
"Oh yeah," boomed the dragon. "I lost my sister's father's best friend's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate to a burglar once."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thanks!" the dragon yelled. "Now I'm going to eat you!"

The large DWAIN lunged,
But the traveler didn't move a muscle.
He looked so cool
(Even without aviator sunglasses)
DWAIN had to pause mid-attack.

"I respect you, traveler," DWAIN bellowed. "So I will let you challenge me to keep your life.
Here, I think one of my soldiers has a sword you can borrow..."
"No, dragon," the traveler intoned with a sage vocal timbre.
He bent down slowly,
Heightening the dramatic tension,
And picked up his frying pan.
"I challenge you to cook beans!"

A gummy worm shouted "begin,"
And the field was all a flutter.
The gummy worms ran about in panic;
Many wished for beds of butter.
DWAIN scrambled about madly.
How was he to find some beans?
But the traveler sat down calmly
And polished his frying pan to a sheen.

Chaos had descended upon those that brought it
As DWAIN couldn't find a single can
Of that protein-laden legumes that come in tin.
But the traveler had no such worries.
He always was prepared
(He would later go on to single-handedly inspire Boy Scouts, Marines, and cat-owners everywhere, but that's a different poem).
He slowly built a fire,
Coaxed the flame to life,
While the soldiers dashed in circles.
They'd later taste like defeat.

DWAIN hollered, raised quite a clamor,
But the traveler merely opened his can
And poured the tasty deliciousness into his pan.
"It's not fair! Where am I supposed to find beans?"
The traveler shrugged. "You said I could challenge you."

As he watched the beans sizzle and pop,
DWAIN grew more and more irate.
"I didn't say-! I didn't say-!"
"Exactly!"
DWAIN started to turn red kinda like a strawberry or tomato but not like you wanted to eat him more like you were very concerned with his health and mental stability as any decent conscious being would be.
He wanted to breath fire (because almost all dragons can. Oh! I forgot to ask DWAIN if he thought it was cool humans can make water in our mouths.)
But he had already agreed to spare the traveler's life if he cooked beans,
So he held in the super hot breath.

When the traveler reached for his fork,
It all became too much to bear.
With a roar,
The Dragon Without An Interesting Name exploded in a puff of red glitter and fire.

A safe distance away,
The traveler shifted around his makeshift cooking pit,
Lifted a forkful of beans,
And murmured quietly, "cool guys don't look at explosions."

Someone give me a moment to breathe.
I want to feel air in my lungs.
I wish I hadn't wasted so much time before,
Burying my face in darkness.

Back where I belong.
Are there frustrations?
Are there stressors?
Of course.
That's how the world is.
But at least I like these problems.

Do You Hear the People Sing

There is something to be said
For a song that can reach down deep
And pull from your soul
And your blood
That fire that drives angry men
To change the colors of the world.

Home.
Am I here?
Do I care if I'm not?
Because these people are home to me,
Just as those I left are.
Does it matter
That I hate this city?

It's funny the desires you find
At night when it's dark
And late.
You had nothing but water
But the music's loud
And you feel so lonely
Even with a crowd
And truly kind people.

His voice is an anchor,
His eyes warm,
And you wish for something,
Anything,
To drive you into his arms.

But it's only for that moment.
The desire is gone as swiftly
As it came roaring in.
Yet there remains
That tiniest draw,
When he leans at your elbow
And whispers the name of the song.

Just when I think
I've felt a feeling
In all the ways it can be felt,
He does something new
And my heart trips over itself
For joy again
As it tries to come up
With conscious thought
That won't reveal
Just how much elation
His few words have wrought.

I have looked on the faces
Of the abused
Before now,
Almost for a year and a half,
And not cracked.
Yet it it quite another
To see her face,
To know there's a little one
Growing inside her,
And that the reason she's in this shelter,
Well, he knew that, too.

I will grow.
I will become better.
I will say ha!
To all the voices in my head
Telling me I've failed before I began.
Because I can do things.
I can succeed.
Watch me soar.

Elle est une rose

Mon meilleur ami,

Elle est une rose,

Une rose très rouge

Et très belle

Pour la premier éclore.

Elle a peur

Qu’elle a déjà fanée.

Mais ça n'est pas la vérité.