Imagine you hand
a sad, lonely girl
the keys to happiness,
hours of joy she can create
for herself
with others, alone
or simply by watching others.

She'll chase that,
dogged and crazed,
with twisted ankles
and weak lungs,
because once you get that needle
in her arm
it will never come out.

I stare across a floor
of black and white
while music thuds and pounds
and feet move in rhythm.
It's late at night,
and I can't help but think
I could do this for the rest of my life
and never grow tired of it.

I win,
again,
for the fifth year
in a row.
The constant campaign
to write more poems,
leaving more words
scattered behind me,
to improve a craft
that will never win me gold.
Day by day,
a skill strengthened
only in the pursuit
of joy and truth
improves.

There is peace on Earth
and peace in my heart,
every scrap attributed
to the Light

To the Fire

I am not finished with you,
m'sieur,
who burns and shines,
bringing me joy
as a happy coincidence.

You,
the dark-haired Apollo,
the lithe Adonis,
the living Enjolras-
you are a fire
lucky enough
to take roost
where the earth cracks
and something rises
unbidden
to feed a flame.

Burn still,
for what I thought would damage me
has left no trace-
and now I wait out
the end of this spark
that I might befriend the fire in earnest.

Reste.
S'il te plait.

To the Lumberjack, for the Last Time

This is the last poem you get,
sirrah,
who never asked for any
in the first place.

I only showed you this once,
and only one piece,
so I suppose it's a sign of your respect
of my secrecy
you never looked further.

For all you look and smell
of earth and here
you are air,
to bluster and fly about
with care only for your path.

You were on the fringes of my life
and then you were everywhere
and then gone again;
a windstorm that left my house a mess
but one easily righted
and it's as if you never were.

So the earth will smile
to see air,
knowing it means nothing
but amitie
each time a breeze wanders through

To Dan Corrigan, for the last time

This is the last poem I will write you
if I have to cut of my hand
to ensure it.
I doubt you read these anymore-
if you do,
I miss your friendship
and still have the sonic screwdriver you built
(it died though,
and the mug handle broke again).

(Also,
if you have that poem I gave you still somewhere,
I would appreciate a copy.
I handed over the only rendering,
and I'm wondering if it's as good
as I remember.
All I have are drafts in a sketchbook
(remember when I thought I could draw?
HA!))

It sticks me still,
deep somewhere,
that I had to betray my dearest friend
to save myself.

I guess I loved you enough
to step in front of a bullet,
a car or whatever you needed
and die for you-
but I didn't love you enough
to choose a slower death.

They say love
is living for someone,
choosing each day
to do things to lift
the other above yourself
so that you both see God.
I did that,
I think.
But it's not love
to suffocate yourself but still breathe,
cutting off bit by bit
that won't grow back
in a self-destruction
that only leaves you
lower
than when you started.

I guess in the end,
the self-preservation,
the self-centered but not selfish
pieces that make up my core
won out
over the endless toil I would undertake
for my people.

You were one,
you were water
and you drowned me
but I guess I really am a fish after all
because I haven't stayed drowned.

There was no malice
in your actions,
I know.

I miss you.
The easy friendship,
the laughter and the support.
I'm sorry I got back up
faster than you.
I'm not sorry for breaking that loyalty.
I would have lost either way,
and you as well.
Better this way,
to mend.

I hope you have kept
the Argentinean accent you had in French.
I hope you still bake your own bread
and craft impossible things.
I hope you learned to sing in front of people,
and create and grow.
I hope you're not reading this.
I hope you mourned our friendship faster.

There are words I want to etch on my skin,
to remember forever,
to burn them into my mind
with color and blood
things I forget.

That is is lonely in a desert;
that is is lonely chez les hommes.
But the beauty of a desert
is that it can hide an oasis.

That tears drops
can turn to stars of fire.

There's also the horribly terrible idea
of immortalizing the words of Malvolio
at the crux of my hip
but it would sooooooo funny.

Please forget this.
Don't remind me
that I said too much
(that I drank too much)
for I'm falling apart
and don't know how to stop.

i just need to leave here.
leave everywhere.
leave all these half-eaten dreams,
this bittersweet pains,
these memories half-invented.
i just need to go somewhere new
and leave my next trail of destruction
in my wake.

'Cause I can't keep gluing myself together
with hopes i made up from lies
(because loyalty is my core
but who said honesty has anything
to do with that)
and i've turned myself around
trying to escape being seen
that I don't know who
I should rebuild myself to be.

i don't know what i need
but whatever it is
i don't have it.

I am content again,

and happily have arms grounding me

as I smile

(literally grounding me.

apparently drinking together

means lying on the floor together)

I wish it would not end,

that friends did not have to part,

that wishes were not useless

before the onslaught of time.

Like a Romantic poet,

fighting against reality,

I shall seal away this memory

of when I knew rest.

Just when I think,
I'm leaving it behind -
all the damage,
the hurt,
the memories -
something reels me back in,
like claws,
serrated,
hooked in my heart
and I remember him
and how being so close
to a rushing torrent
I was dragged down
as the water wore
at my foundation
and here I am still rebuilding.

But I'm rebuilding.
Bit by shattered bit,
I say "fuck you"
to the ragged edges
that prick and stab
at the ends of old wounds,
smoothing them over
that I improve.

Because sometimes,
you leave a bridge slowly,
carefully wearing it down
and burying it in earth
so that while the grave
may mar for a little while
it will fade.

Sometimes you set the bridge on fire,
turn it into an inferno,
because it will scar
and will always scar
so you might as well try and be rid
of everything,
and cackle madly in masochistic glee.

The patterns of dust on the floor
tell the tale of dancers
moving in time
and learning new things,
meeting new people.

It's wonderful,
when the light shines just so
on the tiles
where there were once
dark shapes on a golden floor.

His head ducks
and rises in time
to music only he hears,
headphones securely placed,
while his fingers move
in a flurry of typing
and my fingers itch
to weave through his beard
and condescendingly pat him-
platonically of course.

"Les effluves de rhum dans ta voix,
me font tourner la tête"
and I'm twisting and turning
like a cigarette caught between
nervous fingers tapping on tables
while my hips have a rhythm all their own-
captivated by fantasy,
lose me in the music
and the magic of my own feet.

Be careful how long you stare-
toes, waist,
lithe limb and tossed head
may catch you in a snare
you'll not be loosed from-

Codeswitching 2

Je peux speak
in two languages
but you told me
"no."
I can choose
ma vie
ma langue
mes phrases et mots
mais tu m'a dit
"stop."
Pourqoui?
Why do you want
moi de choisir sauf un?
Why do you want
to imprison me?
I can choose
the melody of my life
le chanson avec lequel
je chante.
Et ce changement des langues
in the middle of sentences,
it's not because I am incertain;
c'est parce que the right words
are in another language,
une autre chanson.

MIKA

He sings -
bright and colorful -
like his videos -
like a magpie.

Bubblegum Lollipop
to keep for your feet light
in this heavy world,
to remind you
"love only gets you down"
even Underwater.

He's a dancer
who can Blame it on the Girls
as easy as the Good Guys.
His talent is plain to see,
to love.

Mon cœur,
MIKA le fait Boum Boum Boum.

He makes me smile,
the thought that he is human,
which he shies not from
as he dances about his messy room
for all to see.

I'll remember to live for glitter -
not you -
that We are Golden.

And if all that fails to cheer me,
that joy in his own art,
that care across mediums,
if I cannot be distracted,
I'll turn to his song Grace Kelly
and refuse to care
as I revel in inconvenience.

The simple act of dancing about my room,
singing notes at the top of my lungs
that I'd never let another soul hear,
cheers me more than anything else I know.
And I have a Happy Ending

The post-Thanksgiving graze
means destroying the structural integrity
of the remaining large hunk of meat
to get the bits you
really
want before Dad
and his laser focus and ninja skills
zeroes in on
exactly
what you had planned to eat.

Mom Skills
are finding what you lost.
Dad Skills
involve eating the leftovers
just before you remembered
the Brussels sprouts were roasted with bacon.

Curled up with my family-
happy,
content,
and filled with good food and memories-

thanks
thanks
a thousand times thanks

How strange is it,
that you are long gone from my life,
but I still feel your touch?

I keep thinking I've shaken free,
only for something
small
to remind me of you.

I'll smile,
fond and sad,
over a friendship that lifted me high
and a romance
that left deep grooves
in heart and mind.

Five years after you told me to-
almost six-
and I've finally come back
to that old language site you shared.

I hated it then,
when trying to learn Russian
(and I still am),
so I used it to review French
for maybe one year-

and now it's the one site I know of
where for free
I'm getting Hindi lessons
after learning more Gaelic from a different site
than you ever taught me.

Tá súil agam go léir do dónna arán,
you bastard.

The snow sits heavy
on the branches,
weighing them down
with its surprise.

The sun rises,
and its life-giving heat
breaks winter's first spell,
melting the snow bit by bit.

If you are not aware,
your ribs will get in your way
if you try to cut out your heart.

I wish there was something
I could come up with
to make that a wonderful metaphor,

for how awful is it
that I am stuck with emotions
I don't want to feel-
and no one wants me to feel them anyway.

I don't know what to do-
determined thinking
usually has gotten me out of this problem.

I can't keep stepping forward
pretending everything is fine.

but I can't face this,
an enemy I cannot win,
for I don't pick battles I'm not sure of.

So I'll run,
like a doctor,
like a madman,
reaching for stars I'll never see,
for dreams I don't deserve,
lying through my teeth,
but I don't know if I'm lying to me or you.

How tonight went:
-ran lightboard perfectly
-finished ZNMD
-did not talk as much as usual
-show was getting judged and pressure was high
-started Pardes
-finished Pardes
-sat through response slowly fading
-remembered in one flash
       what i wanted to forget
-fell to my knees
       doubled over
       sobbing
       in my driveway
-picked myself up
-shut down
-wrote this poem in a friend's kitchen
        where i will soon write more

Tonight's plan:
-run lightboard for the show
-finish watching Zindagi Ne Milegi Dobara
-talk about the above over headset
-especially Hrithik Roshan
-a lot
-start another Bollywood movie
-finish the show
-go home
-drink
-cry alone, lonely
        for I am alone
        and there is no way to change that
        and no one
        who would want to do so with me

Bollywood

There is a magic,
to cinema,
which is the whole point I suppose.

A story woven
in colors, lights,
words and music-
and you forget
what you don't want to remember.

How beautiful,
how full of life and color,
and things I need
is a good Bollywood movie?

but how dare it
make me believe-
for even one second-
that dance and music
can actually be a part of my life-

that there is joy to be had with strangers,

that someone can look at you
and see God-

and I realize to my horror
my escape from stress and sorrow
has only made things worse.

I will preface this poem
with the statement
I am inebriated
(but the play opened tonight
and we had the cast party
and I have nothing until noon tomorrow
fight me)

I got to my driveway,
safe,
sound,
and still pleasantly warm
to a two-pointed buck
a few feet out of the woods.

He met my eyes.

We chatted,
or at least I rambled
in a shoddy excuse
for an Irish accent.

He flicked his ears a lot.

I'd consumed too strong a beer
to be out long
talking to deer
so I made my farewell.

He turned away before I did,
striding towards the darkness of the woods.
Bit by bit,
shadows swallowed him up,
even the bright white of his coloring underneath.

I had an honest to God
Disney Princess moment.

Writing angry speeches,
that will never be made-
tirades that stay in my own head

tempered,
they might change things for the better-
if I had the courage to say them

Dance is joy,
movement and life
united,
and a good choreographer
places no limits on its audience-
he lets us find the meaning we need
within the frame of the dance.

Look up James Sewell Ballet,
and revel with me.

On "Draft"

Once I wrote a poem,
celebrating my muse,
my inspiration,
the life from which my words sprung.

It was happy,
or at least melancholic
with a positive twist.

and now,
my thoughts turn to her again,
and it was just sad
and bitter
and help

Draft

"you, poet,
who is your muse?"

She, lover,

She is a hand print cooling
and fading
on a car too frozen to move.

She is the wind
gathering up the shredded leaves
to the tune of a broken heart.

I am fucking glorious.
I am no one's second-
I am not what you settle for-

I do not deserve that shit
I don't have to settle for your pity.
No.
Fuck you.

I get that you are trying
to compliment me,
to make me feel better
for being alone
but you've made it worse.

I've humored this for too long.

I know that I am not the greatest,
but I am no one's second.

"My eyes are nothing like the sun-
Coral is far more red than my lips red.
If breasts are white, well mine are dun.
If hair be wires, brown wires grow on my head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
yet no such roses see I in my cheeks.
In perfume there is more delight
than the breath that from my own mouth reeks.
I love to sing and speak yet well I know
that music has a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go
for when I walk, I walk upon the ground.
AND YET I am as fair
and any false with me belied compare!"

I may not be beautiful,
but I have a heart too big
and too full of care
to waste it on you.

So I will leave you to your mess,
and find someone
who thinks me his first choice.

I deserve nothing less.

They smile,
and tell me I'm pretty-
that I have an amazing body
("thanks! I'm a dancer!")
and that my kind heart
is practically unbelievable.
that they'd love to date me.

A few minutes later,
they send a quick text to their girlfriends.

I'm the second,
the one they coo about
when they're drunk
and I'm drunk and sad
(never the first without the second)
as if an academic affection
they would never act on
could make me anything
but vaguely annoyed.

I'll still laugh
and smile
because that's what they're going for.
And in the depths of disappointment
how can I do anything
but fulfill their wishes.

I'm not even mad,
because how I can begrudge their joy?
Just annoyed,
as I didn't need this knowledge.

I'll just curl up in a corner,
with some obsession,
pretending I am satisfied.

Renn Faire

Weave me an old story,
a new one,
with Fae and gypsies,
aged peddlers on corners
with eyes sparkling new.

Sing me an ancient song,
a new melody,
with brave knights
in steam-powered armor
or a princess in spun wool.

Lay this spell on me-
If just for an afternoon.

The pieces of a broken set
have been swept to the side.
Tools are put away
and costumes are stored.

The stage is clear,
for a new story,
and I will bid farewell
to the one I cast.

Despite its trial,
I am sorry to see it go.

He is unfailingly kind,
and sweeter than a dream.
He smiles,
and his face transforms
into a glorious sun.

Heads turn to him,
to share in that light,
for goodness
and a bright soul
shines so brilliantly
that all who look on him
can't help but love him.

I'm the friend you forget-
The one who is invited
In grand adventures
When they're nothing more
Than ideas
But omitted when plans solidify-
Usually merely by accident.

I don't know why.
I have always tried
To be funny and smart
And non-threateningly pretty
And over-all appealing
I always do my best
To be helpful
And never ever a burden.

I don't have the skills
To draw souls forth
And gather them for revels,
So I have always depended
On the kindness
And charity of others-
To always feel like a hanger-on,
One-not-belonging
But there anyway.

I have no one
Who is mine,
To remember me
Nine times out of ten
And not lose me in the mess of others.

Must I always stand alone
Or as a puzzle piece
That doesn't fit?

The Stage Manager's "Wouldn't It Be Loverly"

all I want is a booth somewhere
far away from this fake wig hair -
no cell phones go off there
oh wouldn't it be loverly.

lots of chocolate for me to eat.
actors in their places? Sweet!
and no dumb ones to beat
oh wouldn't it be loverly.

oh how loverly sitting absa-bloomin'-lootly still
actors won't stick out of the wing-
and cues go when I will -

someones there on headset with me -
warm and sassy as they can be -
who take good care of me
oh isn't it so loverly.

Leaves are turning red and gold,
a wide array of colors -
and some match the broken mug
that is all I have left
to remind me of a friendship I broke.

I wish you could have been
as clear sighted as Odysseus
and as willing to turn as Raskolnikov.
But you proved as blind
as a poor student with an axe
and as stubborn
as an ancient hero.

I do not wish you
as I would be you be -
for then we would end
each other's fools.
As we already have.

Do me one last favor,
nearly two years
since we finally parted?
Cease haunting me.

A balancing act
is only as good
as the supporting leg.

I wrote before
about a duality,
a split-
a division of affection
that I feel once more.

But then I was more innocent,
and saw a soul
divided in twain-

Now I see double
for there are two to see.

It is strange,
wanting the kiss of one
untrusted

and hungering for
the simple company
of one who will forget
you all too soon.

Even stranger
Is the longing
That none of this
Would exist,
That I can pull myself
free of this mire
And sail on,
Relaxed and happy.

In all probability,
no one will ever
return my affections, so...

But at least I have
that picture of Hiddleston
I taped to the fridge.

She's back!
Fiery hair and soul
burning bright
where she belongs.
She is life,
a bubbling smile
and laugh that carries
and warmth and-

It can take awhile,
but the heat of the sun
can warm earth,
who then jealously clings
to light it was given.

I can't do all i want to-
All I need to-
I'm fading so quickly-
A star collapsing
Before it began to shine-

I don't deserve
him I find cute.

He is sweet,
and caring,
though like all humans
it is not true
of all times.

but I am fool,
and a growing failure,
a drunk I fear-

how can I,
pathetic little me,
hold a candle to his grace?

Rage,
goddess,
my muse,
my Terpsichore,
sing my rage,
dance my rage

Do not let me fail-
Do not let me falter-
I Will Not Accept This

it is not my fault.
please,
lover,
the only faithful one i've ever had-

don't let others,
fools,
cruel pathetic ones
who did not think
ruin me,
ruin us-

Rage,
goddess,
bank my rage.
Do not let me fail.

Give me some other way to go.

Broken,
jagged,
enough rough edges
that one let close
could snap off a piece,
leaving what remains
more ragged than before.

am I then brave
or foolish
to let one in?

I mostly write for me-
dear readers,
do I do you disservice
by not crafting you words of greatness
to lift your soul?

Je suis totalement bourré
But I am with my boys
And I have joy.

There are faces missing,
As always,
For no matter how hard we try
We will miss something
In this life.

Gather these times,
Seize the memories
Before they pass into the night.
Hold on,
And they shall keep you warm later.

Two struck me mortal blows;
         Funny that the second
         Follows the first by but
         Two seasons.

The same two called me dear.
         Strange that it always requires my power
         To get more than passing conversation.

Two were begged,
Pleaded for instruction.
          But how to be what they want
          And expect from "friend"
          Still lies beyond my comprehension.

The morning will put these words
To regrets,
But I burn now,
Under relentless failure
And the weight of a world I built for me.

Too late,
I think it is not to my liking.
I would I had the strength
To make me anew.

Lover,
Never find my grave.
Never stumble upon
      my humble stone
      and sullen earth.

Lover,
Never weep there.
Never water the soil
      I sleep beneath
      where I'll sense not you.

Lover,
All the salt in the world
Tossed from your sad eyes
Could not make me walk again.

Lover,
Never find my grave.
I promise never to search
     for yours.

je suis encrulee
and I don;t have the energy
to look up the right words

i'm drunk
and the human heart
is a stupid thing
that can go die in a fire

I allowed people to glimpse
At a place where I kept secrets;
But now where shall I hide the tales
I do not wish to tell?
Where shall I sequester
The stories their eyes can't see?

I am not a good dancer because I am skilled.

I know many steps,
and can follow many more
(there the question:
         what defines a dance I know?
         if I can follow a lead
         or teach it to someone new?
         because those get very different answers.
         Perhaps I'll ask that of someone.)

There are skills
I have built into my body,
filed away like tools,
used and honed
with constant happy practice.

That alone
does not make me a Good dancer.

Dance is Joy,
or the expression thereof
          (and no glum-faced
          easy-A-er will convince me otherwise)
and that is why
dance is also Beautiful.
It grasps at the wonderful reasons
to manipulate the human body
          (and isn't it a little strange
          how we can somehow also
          find joy in sorrow?)
Communicating to the watchful eye

Without Joy,
without Life,
Without some little spark of the divine fire
why would anyone want
to participate in dance
or even merely spectate?

Young men spin me compliments
as they spin me on the dance floor;
I smile and save them for later
for Being Joyful
is not something I have the words to explain.

A little voice,
it asks me to stand alone,
To stand tall and proud
under my power
for I need no other mortal
to aid me.

I need no blustering air,
to blow about without thought
and throw me into confusion and disarray

I need no rushing fire,
fluttering and beautiful,
to unthinkingly burn and overwhelm

I need no flowing water,
so desperate and craving,
to cover me in cold that drains life

I will be earth,
solid, sure, steady, dependable.
I will not move unasked,
not give up what is not owed.
A nature that nurtures,
coaxing life and love
to throw color across landscapes
and to warm souls.

I gave up my heart,
thought it a trade,
but then it was drowned,
burned,
suffocated,
but I think I would surrender it again.

I was born to earth,
(or so those who listen to stars
tell me)
so I should be grounded.

It's the thing I need most,
after all-
to be grounded-
when air runs away
and the world presses in
and everything's trying to kill me
and i can't breathe
i can't feel-

I need earth
I need touch

I've been cataloging ways,
saving up survival tips,
for when the day comes
that demons strike
and there's no one to help
no one to breath for me
I'll be okay.
I want to be able to ground myself.

then i think of how nice it would be
to be grounded in a set of arms
even when happy

Dance is magic.
I know of little else that can take a man
who makes me smile,
and blush a little bit
into a handsome creature
that brings my hand to my chest
to stop my heart
from flying away from me.

That is, of course,
until he steps back off the dance floor,
invites me on to it,
and I myself transform,
becoming more than me,
a creature of Beauty.

I'm light as air-
flying about the floor
as a mobile mass of limbs
centered around a core-

A friend told me I walk like a dancer,
move like one,
even when there's no music,
for I lead with my rib cage as one whole unit,
taking my center, my core,
and sending that first,
letting the limbs follow along behind.

That's what I'm doing,
now,
in a desperate attempt to keep up
with the best horrible mistake
I've ever made -
asking a Lindy Hopper to dance
when it's a fast song-
but I am joyful,
as is he,
and as are those watching.

That's the point of dance,
n'est pas?

Courage.
I have it.
I tamped down the irrational anxiety,
screaming at me to stop,
and let the smooth music
glide me across the edges of the dance floor.

I almost chickened out when he saw me.

But I didn't.

I kept walking.

He met my eyes,
and at the same moment,
we slid towards each other,
hands outstretched,
and asked the other to dance.

It was one of the best blues dances
of my life.

May every blessing pressed to me
be turned instead
on the young couple
that's been married
for just under an hour.

May the sun shine as brightly on them
as the sunflowers
strung about the cathedral.

It's been a beautiful escape,
this time away from work
as I prepare for a wedding.

I think I shall miss
this calm relaxation
when the week of rest ends
and I return to my jobs.

I read through the night
-pushed away the dark hours
with stories of light
-and now that dawn breaks
I will take my rest.

To be refined/reused

The sun may have melted
Icarus's wings
in that desperate flight-
but it was the sea
who dealt the wounds.

Maybe I'm holding onto sanity
with just two fingers,
but better than
with only one.

Just when I think
I have finally slipped free,
Regret slams back down
like a vise I am one inch short
of escaping-

He is built the same
as this shade-once-a-young-man,
all skin-and-bones frame
with wiry muscle you don't expect
holding him together.
He even has the same concave indent
in the center of his chest.
He's a runner,
occasionally drawing,
quiet and reserved at first
who diligently works.

The similarities burn
until differences surface-

Dedication to multiple sports,
not music.
He draw ideas and images,
art not the plans
for something he'll later build.
His eyes may be blue but they're dark,
and he is not broken,
at least,
not in ways he's not trying to fix.

I will see this youth for himself,
not for the friend long gone.

I looked up
The Language of Flowers
for a poem
in order to
Enhance the Imagry
but then it got too complicated
and a little too pretentious
so here's this.

I'm awake alone
(comme toujours)
and I miss you,
you dumb idiot,
who said you wanted to write
and keep in touch
but didn't.

I could've told you about the cat
vanquishing the
cheese-eating surrender monkey
that is my dog,
or how Bollywood films
as a genre
are now my favorite thing
(il n'y a pas
du douleur
a la pensee
de regarder ces films
avec toi)
and now I know how to say
"father" and "mother" in Hindi
in addition to the Spanish I've been learning.

When I return to school,
and have things to occupy my time
that do not also bore me,
I will forget.
To remember invites regret,
and when I return to my hermit ways
you will be
but a dandelion.
lost in the wind.

I don't know how to tell
the silly boy
I decided to trust again
that dance is my temporary church
and I do not mean that to blaspheme.

I have no church family,
no roots
though I'm trying to grow them
and they keep getting snipped.
I am a wanderer,
cut off.

and there are few times
when I don't feel like a
worthless piece of shit
no matter how often I
pray to God that he correct
this fucking pathetic, vain
way of thinking.

when I dance,
I am chasing something Beautiful,
something Good,
I can turn my mind away from me
and my soul is so filled with joy
it forgets every mar on the world
and rises to sing praises
at Heaven's gate.

I will be a lark at break of day rising
for I know the sun I seek
can be found wherever I look

So much time
and effort
wasted,
ruined along with a tire
on the side of the road
and just when I finally
was recapturing
what I lost
it slips through my fingers.
just when i was starting
to make friends.

all these demons
throwing themselves
at a desperate attempt to get out,
to be shrapnel
in an explosion
touched off by the simple denial
of my only constant joy
when I was blocks from satisfaction-
I swallow them down again
with only a few loose cannons
to nick at those I shield.

I could not gather
again
the strength to venture out.
I could not rejoice
in the challenge that would lift my spirits.
So I will curl up in my tears,
an addict denied my fix,
and let the painstakingly applied eyeliner
run down my cheeks.

It's a clever little line,
the one between asking for help
and asking for attention.

Trouble is,
I've never been good
at fine lines.

All the world was mine.

How strange
That I might feel at home
In a stranger's arms,
And yet I was.

How lovely,
That he might sit at my table
And talk with me,
As friends,
And let me babble incessantly.

I'll not let go
of the hesitant "may I?" with a hand on an empty chair,
of the "thank you," pressed to an ear.

I will dance out the door
and into the arms of sleep.

I'm chipping off little pieces
of me
and planting them about.

I've had to throttle
the life
out of those that became weeds.

I may have cried
over seeds
that never grew.

And yet I hold in my hands---

a bundle of paper,
secured by twine,
with stamps all the colors of the rainbow--

a cup of tea-
and once, only once
coffee-
warmed by another's toil--

a shirt purchased
somewhere I've never been-
pressed into my grasp
with a smile so excited-
that suits me as if it had been made for me---

the fruit of a garden well-tended

It is difficult
to practice French
when under the influence
of a half-consumed whiskey-and-coke
when the burbon-and-coke
abandoned by your mother
is also now your responsibility to consume.

there's a grammar mistake their somewhere.
I'll fix it when I'm hungover.
maybe.

He is leaving fur
(and sometimes even whiskers)
scattered about the house
as he settles in,
curling and purring
around our limbs
and hearts.

He is leaving chirps
echoing in his wake
as he races to the dinner bowl.

What an adorable cat.

Codeswitching

I can parler
en deux langues
mais tu m'a dit
"no."
Je peux choisir
my life,
my tongue,
my turns of phrase,
but you told me
"stop."
Why?
Pourquoi voulez-vous
me to chose only one?
Pourquoi voulez-vous
m'en prisonner?
Je peux choisir
la melodie de ma vie,
the song with which
I sing.
And this changing of tunes
dans le milieu des phrases,
ce n'est pas parce que je suis unsure;
it's because des propres mots
sont dans un autre langue,
in different song.

As My Mother Requested III

He is a musician,
and perhaps a journeyman
in his craft.

And the sight of him
fills me
with some distasteful mix
of rage and disappointment,
and I cannot refuse
that bitter drink.

Perhaps I could stand this
if I cared to practice,
cared to set aside those thoughts
and replace them with ones
more charitable
and more akin
to the thoughts of those around me.

But I do not care to-
perhaps that is a sin.

Perhaps the mangling
of ancient and treasured hymns
is a worse one.

As My Mother Requested II

I cannot stand the musician
because I value history,
because I value
and adore
the ability to connect to the past,
singing to tunes
words familiar
to saints long gone.

He keeps the words the same,
sure as much as I can tell,
but it feels like
he is celebrating his own creativity
as he turns the simple tunes
into melodies more complex
that lose the congregation
as multiple guitars
and drums
play along to something I don't recognize.

He drowns out
his own vocal partners.
How am I supposed to match him
when the girl next to him can't?

An organ master
knows to play softly as the flock sings,
even though
such a mighty instrument
can fill an chapel without trying.
They leave room in the air
for the voices of the lost-now-found
to feel welcome to sing along.

If you like,
tell me how to look at this differently.
Tell me how to see
these changing of the hymns-
in order to fit the fads of today's music-
as something good,
as I know I could see it
as the re-adaption,
re-interpretation,
of old things in new ways
building on the creativity of the past
with the creativity of now.

But I don't know
how to connect the feel of a concert
with the reverence I feel due to worship.

As My Mother Requested

I should like him,
I suppose,
or at least be able to tolerate him.
After all,
I've seen his growth.

He began as an afro-wearing bobo,
with v-necked tees,
torn jeans,
and an aura too cool for shoes.
His balance was terrible,
using four guitars
when one would have sufficed,
drowning out every singer but him
in a near cacophony of drums
and electric guitar-
the acoustic one just for show,
along with the violin and keyboard.

Now at least he wears shoes
with proper jeans,
and has cut down on the guitars.

i should be dancing.
right now.
but i'm not.
and now i am terrified.
because i used to love it,
to love being on the floor
and twirling about
as i pleased
with men who could not
get enough of me.

i don't know if i love it anymore.
i don't know if
what i attend-
or used to-
during the school year
has killed the joy i once had
in summer.
i don't know if
there's a chemical imbalance
growing and growing,
poisoning my life.

a big symptom of depression
is a lack of interest
in passions,
isn't it?

Icarus III

a mixture
of water, air, and fire
rising to take flight
in a desperate escape
from the earth that
keeps them bound-

fire grows
as fire does.
fire overpowers
what water and earth
kept balanced.

what was solid
turns awry-
from earth
to something akin to
water born of fire
molten wax
slipping across
harvested feathers.

air cannot support alone
what belongs to the earth.

over-grown joy
turns quickly to sorrow
as earth and water
reclaim the wandering son.

a risk taken fails.
a perfectionist loses what matters most.

one soul
falls and falls
without the means
of saving himself.

he would not cry out for help,
in those last moments.
why burden someone
with a request impossible to fulfill?

Quick, quick,
hide the scars
and gaping wounds-
But why?
Why not rip off the mask?
oh yes,
it was glued on
and I'm afraid of what
remains
underneath

Just have confidence,
Just be brave.
Hide the fear
and the doubt
behind smiles.

"things will get better"

Right now though,
I am terrified.

It's easy to cry
and not be noticed.
To hide yourself away
beneath a veneer
for fear of cracks
and dammit-
you were going to write a poem
for a friend's birthday
even though he doesn't deserve it
but fuckit-
you have nothing now.

nothing to give.
nothing to hold.
nothing to comfort.

what good
is this
pride,
this self worth,
in the face of
all your miserable failings
and the ways you don't measure up.

The sun is shining for you,
though I am trapped in grey,
swallowed by shadows
and not enough light-
I'm sorry.
This was supposed to be something joyful,
Something thoughtful
but not depressing.

Maybe there's no joy left.

In a lighter moment,
I recognized my patterns.
I noted the development of my style.

there's an "Icarus Cycle"-
with the last entry made at the end of April-
where wings of wax
and falling images
slipped into poem after poem,
some happy,
many not.

My capitalization rules
vary and change.
Once I followed a self-rule
Of every line
Beginning with a capital.
Then it changed
to only every complete
phrase,
or it's commencement.
Sometimes I'm too tired to care.

I play a little more too,
when I'm intentional
and not just writing for practice.
I play with indentation,
with punctuation.

I can't wait
to see how I'll grow.

I can create
inside a kitchen,
but I lack the confidence
to do so with wild abandon.
I hesitate,
I check and re-check,
then check again.
There is so much that could go wrong,
and there are others' happiness at stake.

I do not need people
to tear down
things I am proud of,
or even me.
I am critical enough of myself.
I don't need you
to remind me
of how pathetic I am.

How self-centered,
how vain am I?
To think that my own failures
make me so pathetic
that I am worthless
even though
the Creator of the Universe
has deemed me forgiven
and Loved.

Perhaps I really am as pathetic
as I fear.

there's circular reasoning
in there somewhere.
Where is the weak link
that I might break this chain?

Panic, panic,
putting myself forward,
paving a future,
probably, hopefully.
Perhaps I'll fail.
Possibly not.

Names are Power

Guard who you are;
Names have power;
Hide your identity
In secrets and lies.
Names are power;
You can build Laura up,
Repeating her name
In comforting tones
That say you see her.
Tear David down,
Whispering his name
In time with "slut"
And "immature fool."
Turn that one invisible
Or mighty by hearing
Their name
But never letting it past your lips.
Names have power.

Mais comment vous vous appelez?

I am home,
A cat on my lap
And peace settling about me
As I rest with family.

I have needed this-
A break,
A chance to breathe.
All I could ever want.

Isn't that so?
Isn't that all anyone needs?

The cat cries locked in
a car taking him away from
his only known home.

Graduation looms,
the last one before my own.
As time ticks closer
towards separation
I quietly,
stoically,
mourn all I have lost this year
and all I loose tomorrow.

Do not leave me,
my friends.
Be separated from my place
but not from me.
Let me keep your words,
your thoughts,
your smiles and preferences for tea.
Stay my friend
though you graduate
and cannot stay a student.

Forgive and Forget

Lovers are easy.
You win them for a season
-or maybe a lifetime-
with pretty words
and sentiment,
pressing joy into the other
because you think it won't last.
(Hearts tend to break,
after all,
and humans like to let a silly thing
like sorrow get in the way
of I am content.)

Friends are harder.
You lure them in with laughter,
with joy as well,
but you try and make them stay.
They do
the ones that count

What matters

is that lovers wound
but make you forget,
lost in silken words
and breezy touches.

Friends wound
but they heal.
They take scars
that are not their fault
and turn the hurts
into their responsibility.

It is different for all of them.
Some draw the hurt out with words
as one does a child from under his bed.
Some burn the poison away with action
-or literally fire-

Sometimes you don't know the hurt is gone
until it is,
drowned with the second cup of tea
that you wanted but
didn't ask for
and something tells you the first wasn't asked for either

That's why humans usually have both,
isn't it?
So we can omit
and we can mend,
forgive and forget.
just don't lose yourself in only one

Constellations

I can count the stories

Drawn in the stars.

You're not interested in them,

are you?

Or at least,

not ones I would spin.

I can trace the history

of man's imagination

but I cannot trace

the trajectory of your thoughts.

I can point

to the lies the ancients told themselves

to keep their children warm,

to place the image of heroes before them

when they face the monsters in life.

I cannot point

to the moment you started to lie.

Or did you?

My joy
is built upon
seeing cardinals
and the smell of petrichor.

It's alright,
my friend.
I know I am broken.
I have been made aware
of just how much recently.
I am trying to build myself back up
because no matter how many times
you say it was all on you
I would have broken up with me, too.
I don't like me yet.
Maybe I will someday.

They say humans need
eight pos'tive touches a day.
Today I had none.

I apologize,
again.

I am so used to building my own pyre
I never thought
someone would want their own
instead of burning me.

I guess we both have wings of molten wax
we desperately need to fly.

I am so used to ripping myself apart
in service to others,
expecting
and receiving little in return,

that of course I am stuck
on the one person who said,
"I am selfish,
and cannot give you what you deserve.
I will not do this to you."

Of course I am stuck
on the one person
who realizes they will take and take
but will not give,
what I know I can survive,
and so they do as I would.

I would not do this to me,
and yet he has.

I am so gone.

To the Author

Get your life together, girl.

B R E A T H E

It may be
the last week of classes
and every deadline
is pressing down
meanwhile Stage Manager duties
kicked in earlier than you thought.

Doesn't matter.

You've survived worse
and will survive greater.
You can
(after all,
the Lord Almighty
is on your side).

Keep playing at being okay.
Dive into that role
with no hesitations.
Tell yourself
that lie
enough times
and it will become true.

You've done this before
and it has worked.
I believe in you,
and that it will work again.

A Drunk Poem to the man that was my "This One"

It's 2am,
and I want to text you.

I'm more than a little drunk-
on both champagne and friendship-
so inhibitions are lowered.

but i won't.

I won't tear from you
the time you need to
h e a l
from whatever
w o u n d s
I dealt.
Or maybe the only one who dealt them was
y o u.

that might be the gin talking,
so i apologize.

why aren't things right?
why do you have to be such a noble bastard
and deny me
the self-sacrificing ways to which I am accustomed?

I would make my pyre
out of
y o u
and not shed a tear
should flames lick my skin
as long as
y o u
had lit the fire.

i apologize.

I let myself be angry,
and last night
I finally let myself
be sad.

I finally cried for that loss,
and sisters handed me a welcome shot
to ease the passing of sorrow.

I will be sad,
for I know you are,
and it's okay for a time.
I will be alright
and you are strong enough to be as well.

Should you happen
to whisper an apology to me again,
know in that moment
you've been forgiven for a long time.

fuck you.
how dare you say that
i am amazing, that
you love spending time with me.

how dare you.

how dare you say these things
and do the very thing that
contradicts your words,
as if you hadn't been doing so already.

i wrote you words.
they are yours.

and you cannot manage the effort to care?

you are not as mature
as i thought earlier this year,
i suppose.

i want to be truly angry,
and rage,
but i believe too much
in being your friend
to destroy.

(there's still a little part of me
that thinks you'll come back.
i don't know if you want to,
but i know you were the only man
in four years
to make a move on me
while sober.
and now you took it back.)

Where do we stand?
I don't know.
I feel like I'm falling,
or ground is crumbling,
but you are the one
who ripped the rug out.

Am I yours?
You seemed to say no,
and then walk yourself back
from that precipice
I didn't know I was standing on.

I suppose,
it would be wisest
to warm an iron in the fire
and press it to my heart,
If I am wrong about your thoughts,
I can always discard that burned
but now un-wounded skin later.

Why am I left frustrated
day after day?
I don't know what the solution is,
only that it continues to escape.

I am back,
alive and happy.
The lethargy that suffocated
is gone,
and I long for time with you.
But where are you?
I thought you were back,
busy still like me,
but ready to spend time with me again
(not that we haven't seen each other
these past weeks,
but there's a difference between
being together in a group,
just us but working independently,
and just us together).

I thought you were back, too.
Instead,
I got more touches
from our personal Jack Harkness -
who does "ship" us -
and more conversation from my faraway friends.

(I will seduce you,
sooner or later,
and have you beneath me,
and when you reach to remove even a sock,
I will leave.
Because I am a bitch,
and if I had to wait in twists for your time
you will wait in frustration for my attentions.)

Everything is well.
I can feel myself rising,
times mending.

You are with me.
You are spending time,
that you initiated,
and I am happy to spend
even distracted time with you.

I'll go with you to however many parties you wish,
though I'll stand on the edges,
a wallflower to the end,
if it means smiling at you from across a crowded room,
just you.

Everything will be alright.
I know it.

Our crashes did not coincide.
No,
one fell,
and while you rose
I have tumbled far.

I'm at my worst,
trapped here,
trying to claw my way out
without damaging you.
I'm trying not to be
pathetic and needy
and someone you should run far away from.

But how can I?
When I am rewarded for crisis?
I lost your attention,
any sense of your affection,
but now as I spiral ever downwards
there you stand,
confused,
at the edge.

I can keep you there,
throwing just enough clues
that I am helping you
through my pain.
I show just enough distress
over your ignorance
that you will fall over your feet
in a rush to fix it.

Why should I let you?
Why?
When you disappear
even the two of us are well.
Now I have power.

The rational side,
the side of me that takes each wound
with grace
and the growth of what makes it Beautiful,
wishes to share
in calm tones
how this isn't all related to you.
How I feel a failure with or without papers due.
How I feel worthless with or without
neglect.
The good side
offered you tea,
a shoulder or meal,
never thinking of the return,
only your improved state
as you blankly accepted
as all your focus was on crushing deadlines.

The screaming part of me,
that clutches each wound as if it were mortal,
allowing the stinging pain to radiate through,
does not Love.
It counts the debt
and longs to lash out
that you aren't taking random stabs at comfort
as I did,
I who only pretend to know what to do
when friends are distressed.

As the conflict grows,
reason is strangled into silence
and the claws turned inward.

Maybe I should just cut you loose.
Why should I tie you close
when I fully expect
that any day now
I shall tumble from a cliff,
a bloodied mess of thorns
and melted, waxen wings.

I am trying to feel nothing,
to keep a tidal wave down.
A knot grows,
creases in the fabric,
so all I need
is the image of a red hot iron
pressing
into what is now a smoldering mess
but at least it's unfeeling.

Unpainted Canvas

Unpainted Canvas

He loved me first,
Loved me when I was whole-
No, I was whole long before I met him
and remain so.
Loved me when I was unbroken-
No, I have always been a little cracked,
and broke the year before he met me.
Loved me when I was untested.

Yes.

He loved a girl.
i think i loved a boy.-
I have become a woman.
I went into the woods
and learned who I was
in the moments it counts.
And I would choose a friend
over an intangible word.
against his words i think i would have lost

He loved an unpainted canvas
but that now carries colors
another holds dear.

Be banished,
regret.

You don't stop loving someone,
Not usually.
Usually you just forget to.
They fall out of your life
and you go weeks
without a thought of them.

Then a memory roars back
and you feel that pang
That says, "you're not quite done."

But they left you.
Without a proper goodbye.
So you sent them one,
and it felt like
setting that friendship on fire
while shoving it off in boat
to be immolated
while it sails across a sea you'll never cross,
and standing at the shore staring unfeeling
at the fading light the dying ship gives off.

(the goodbye also felt like
a whisper,
drawing the curtains closed on an empty house,
or pulling the shroud over unseeing eyes
after the last breath
sighed
out of this sad remnant of camaraderie
without anyone noticing.)

I do not burn things.
I am not a phoenix,
and neither were we.
I am a snake;
I shed my skin when I grow to big to be contained,
Leaving it behind to show where I once was.

Scattered along the path of my past
are mementos too small to contain me.

I will not forget the lessons I learned.
There are no bleeding wounds to forgive,
Only a ghost that grows weaker each time I forget the teacher.

Lift up your eyes.
Hope has come.
Your battle may not be over,
but the war was won before you started to fight.
therefore,
have no fear.
You have heard the victory cry,
and Death is overthrown.
Take joy with you each day,
and remember.
Laugh in evil's face,
for the Lord your God is Alive.

Hazy Dreams

The world leaves us behind-
I think-
drowning in half-remembered loves
and hazy dreams of haunts once adored-
Before we grow old enough to learn
We can't keep it in the first place.

I want to say things.
I want to explain.
I want to open up
and be a functioning human being
when it matters
for at least once in this life.

When I try,
The words get stuck in my throat,
Catching there,
Begging to be set free
yet held back from a tightening,
Frightening,
Constriction of everything
that runs between my gut
and my common sense,
A stranglehold of anxiety
refusing to let go.

I suffocate under my own power
before I let someone
close enough
to do the job themselves.

It's 2:31am

It's 2:31am
and I'm waiting for a bus in Montreal
that will take me to the airport.
The snow on the ground is thick,
but I'm wearing wool socks
and a good jacket
so I'm not cold.
I'm a little lonely though.

It's 2:49am
and I'm still waiting.
My feet are a little chilly,
but I've started to create a small little square
of packed snow
next to the bus stop sign.
I'm still lonely,
especially when I look up at the hotel
where my friend still sleeps.

It's 2:52am
and my feet feel like blocks of ice.
I'm curling my toes constantly,
trying to guess whether or not
I'll miss my bus
if I step back inside the hotel lobby.
All the buses that have passed by are wrong.
When is mine going to arrive?

It's 3:05am
and I might have frostbite.
I don't know.
But the wrong buses keep passing
and now out from bars
come people who are ending their day
while mine began over an hour ago.
I am grumpy
and lonely
and cold.

It's 3:08am
and angels have arrived.
Two fellow souls headed for the airport
with a phone to tell them when the bus will arrive
exactly.
My feet are cold,
and growing ever more painful,
but now I am not so lonely.
Now I have hope.

It's 3:16am
and I'm sitting on a bus in Montreal
as it winds its way to the airport.

Au vacances avec mon ami meilleure,
je peux rester.
Nous sommes heureueses aujourd'hui,
(et hier, et demain).
Dans un autre pays,
nous apprennons des lecons
tres important
pour tous notres vies.

To my 'This One'

I apologize,
good sir,
for not being affectionate
in ways others look for such emotion.

I have always been private-
sharing a lot with only a few-
and have always been unsure,
confused as to the rules of affection
and displays of it.

(You may notice,
however,
that whenever I can
I hand to you
that tea you so adore)

I long to keep this precious thing betwixt us
precious,
and ours,
because I don't know the rules-
or think I don't, anyway-
and I'm so bad at communicating
when I can't craft for you
sentences and phrases that spin
off the page and meander through minds
as I say two things at once.

I never learned affection
in gestures and touches.
I learned to do things,
to say them however poorly the words come out.

Words I am writing for you,
saying to you,
will always be yours.
I will have a mug for you
without your even asking.
(Talk about it enough
and it might sometimes be coffee)

Even if the poetic style shifts,
you will know when the words are yours.

In his arms,
after a night among friends,
as we lean back against the couch cushions
and think how our game could have been won,
there is no suffocation,
only the feeling of peace.

I'm suffocating myself.
Bit by bit,
I cut away at ties.
I am isolated.
Alone,
Maybe there
I can save me from myself,
Take the hands off my throat.
Yes,
all alone
i can save me.

Clawing my way through
yet another low,
waiting,
wanting,
the response I need
it's not forthcoming
and now I'm getting lost
in my own head
and I need him,
or anyone,
but the void I'm shouting into
is silent.

A gathering of glass,
the weather-brought coating
that looks akin to water in the sea
as it rolls over the wind-worn plains of snow,
this ice
is glorious and shines in moonlight,
a cliched piece of beauty,
I would not be rid of this sight.

it closed,
and the set is torn down,
and i feel nothing.
It was another circus,
another show,
there will be more.
I will miss,
in time,
this particular rendition,
but not so much as to lose
any further sleep over it.

Once more,
One further attempt
to get every thing right
in the production of the musical.

Perhaps the muse,
the energy,
will return when I sleep.

It's production week,
and I feel buried
in empty tea wrappers
and cue sheets
but dear lord in heaven
this is worth it.

Opening night approacheth,
and I feel like over-dramatizing
basically everything.
Maybe Janet doesn't want to show off,
but I want to proclaim the brilliance of the show
(and my own acclaim sitting in the booth)
to everyone I meet.
Later,
when staring down 6 cues in one minute,
I will feel the panic.
Now,
there is only excitement.

Nature's perfect predator,
one we call Sassafrass,
Is flailing about on the floor
for his tail has offended
and now he must invoke feline justice,
Imprisoning the guilty with his paws.

He sits there,
    cat on his lap
    who he is thoroughly petting,
with his laptop open
that I assume he is actually using to be productive.
Meanwhile I stare at him,
sneaking glances mostly,
trying to write this without spooking him.

I think him beautiful,
and I know you're not supposed to say that about men,
especially not a man who wears a beard
and gives off the refined lumberjack vibe,
but whatever.
He's got eyes like the sea,
a smile so wide it could crack open one of mine,
hands I forget myself in watching.

When turns those unfathomable depths on me,
when that heart so wonderful it has to be fueled by the divine
shines through and illuminates those simple irises,
I am lost.

Little bits of my heart
flake off and fly to him
as leaves fall from trees to gather on the surface of the lake
and slowly slip beneath the water.

Something incorporeal and precious,
as fragile as a glass heart,
formed last night between smiles
and hugs and kisses pressed
to grinning mouths.
A little affection,
a budding romance,
sprung from attraction
as the day passed over
into Valentine's Day.

Listen and Watch

hushed whispers-
and tip-toed laughs-
a giggle buried in the crook of an arm-
one breathy sigh-
murmurs providing temptation
(a gentle poke in the ribs)
to steal the focus and words
(the hiss demanding silence)
away from a flickering screen
(defiant chuckles)
robbing speech from lips with lips-
a toss of head and hair-
sputtering as strands invade-
all this until limbs wrap around
(rebellious and playful struggling)
pinioning wings for one moment
(one single nip about the ear)
until all-out war on ticklish sides commences-
and the film plays on forgotten.

J'ai trouve la musique
qui chante a mon ame.
(j'ai perdu les accents
et maitenant,
ca ne m'inquite pas)
J'ai trouve la musique
pour ma vie.

Je suis presque perdue
dans les yeux d'un homme,
presque perdue
dans ses bras et son rire.

Il deviendra le mien,
un jour.
Le mien.

Icarus II

He runs his fingers through my hair,
And I am lost.
It's a gentle feeling,
A soft assurance of affection,
And I am gone.

I would stay curled in his arms
For as long as he asked.

Once,
I flew too close to the sun,
Though not so far
That I am irreparably damaged.
Though my wings are singed,
I might still fly.

Why should I though?
There is a harmless dive
Into pure sea blue
Waiting for me
If I simply turn my face towards his.

I'll dance to shake the boredom;
I'll dance to lose the ennui;
I'll dance to chase down motivation;
I will not dance to win your heart.

I once was afraid,
so afraid,
that a slip of vocabulary
or turn of the hip
would lose me a friend,
lose me affection I had imagined.

Now I will laugh,
and throw who I am in his face,
for I have no more use
for affection I have to earn.

I tiptoed around someone once,
tried to make him like me.
I showed my pretty and perfect angles,
enough of the flaws to be human,
and never let slip
that I felt a gnawing darkness.

It is quite difficult,
But oh what a glorious challenge,
To type a paper
With a cat on your lap.

Icarus I

He was the sun,
you see,
bright and beautiful.
He was warm,
though I never knew
(or will know)
the feel of his touch.

He burned,
an almost pure fire,
shining that the dark around him
fled.
He shone,
though dark of hair
and slim of frame,
he was so bright
I had to reach out to him.

Yet I am water and air,
slipping through cracks
and dipping past the blows.
I might soar up
to touch the sun,
but I will always melt with failure
and tumble away
from what was too good
to ever be mine.

Which attracts more,
the sadness or the weirdness?
And which will make them stay?

Which ties souls together
With thicker and tighter cords,
the laughter or the tears?

Already starting to fail,
feeling the pressure of fulfilling goals.
I need to fill the holes
in a ship already leaking.

The year is still young,
still new and bright.
I can write my way
to success I know.

It is easy
to slip into his orbit,
a sun that shines,
for I can already feel him
circling me.

It might become
what Sirius could be
if its halves were equal,
that bright star.

Perhaps I'm slipping in too deep,
Too close,
when I can hear warnings to stay out.
But few come from my own mind,
So I tread closer
to a heart beating next to mine.

Perhaps this time,
curiosity will kill me.

Music is Poetry is Music

Music is poetry,
And the opposite is true.
It needs time
To break time,
To give you a breath of immortality.

Minutes still tick by
As you are lost in words and scores.
For you though,
Time does not pass
While in that little piece of writing,
Or beautiful moment of score,
A year could pass
While you feel it a day stretched on forever.

Gathering up
strength and will,
 the discipline to go on,
As yet another semester commences,
As more friends prepare to leave.

Organizing frantically,
Putting things away,
Hoping that by bringing order to my surroundings
Will bring order to my life.

A long road stretches ahead,
Slowly covering in snow
As I fight my way
(Protected by a car)
With my friend by my side
Back to school.
Time's running out
To do everything,
To be a responsible adult.

So many moments,
I am silent.
It's no drama,
No melodramatic ennui
That closes my mouth in
Some sense of poetic justice.

Nah.
I've just usually found an appropriate musical lyric and have to stop myself from re-enacting
                                                                                                                     [the whole musical

Walking quickly,
With no thought to anything,
I passed the window.

My steps faltered.

I turned,
And was frozen by awe.
The night was dark,
Streets lit by solitary lamps,
For clouds had rolled in without
My noticing.
Their fury had turned to ease,
Releasing neither lightning
Nor furious rain,
Rather snowflakes,
Falling in soft clumps
Like lazy leaves settling onto the earth.

People Hurt

People hurt you.
You start to think
That maybe you'll be okay,
just fine-
And then someone does something,
Says a few words
And you're right back at the beginning,
Still hurting.

It was going to be okay,
I'd put the moment behind me,
And then he wanted to talk.

The heart was going to heal,
to move on,
And then he asked to write me.

She lost her temper.
She forgot my scars.

Little sticks
that add up like straws until
One more
is
Too much.

But everyone hurts you,
just like how you'll hurt everyone.
Fair's fair,
But that means we try to be a better human.
Better humans seem to hurt less.

The first gathering of the New Year
felt like something from the past.
It looked like high school,
But perhaps with less innocence.
Funny how time marches on
but we do not.