If I come home after a certain time
I still stumble automatically
(out of habit)
I still fumble with my key in the lock
I still stagger up the stairs
I still fall asleep in my clothes
I still wonder where you are
There's Time To Be Alone Once I'm DeadI've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
I don't know if that's because
it allows me to keep you
at eight hundred thousand arms' lengths,
or whether it's because it rationalizes me
turning down every chance of happiness I find
closer to home,
or whether it's just because
I'm in love with an idea
whose reality I don't have
to deal with until October.
Or whether it's because I actually found someone who's worth waiting for.
Whatever the reasons,
I've never really been one for reality checks,
and I've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
Give Me Five YearsGive me five years to travel the world and then I'm yours.
Five years to grow;
get the wanderlust
out of my system
and learn how not
to want to be
My love will be all the better for it,
Give me five years,
and I will try to give you forever.
AliensYou told me once that your passion was for travel,
although you've never left the south of the country you were born in.
But I have a passion for passions
and collecting experiences
in compartments in my head marked 'adventure'.
So let's travel the world, you and me,
and turn two dreams into a living, breathing reality.
Making SenseIt's easy
(when they're not there)
to make somebody into the person you want them to be.
to fill gaps in language
with what you want to hear.
It's very, very difficult to walk away.
Surrounded By Dry LandIt is not mountains or cities that you will find in her heart,
but the deep, dark, depths of the ocean.
Her first language is temptation;
she speaks it fluidly,
but she never can be won
for her heart belongs to the tides.
Many have tried;
but no lover's arms can compete
with the swell
that washes her clean, clean, clean.
Dirt can be rinsed out,
but stains remain
that pull her down
to the only place
where she has ever felt
Thoughts On LeavingThings that I am afraid of:
Talking to people I don't know,
Falling in love.
(Doing all of the above at the same time.)
The Un-TitledThey work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They work in schools
and clean lecture hall floors.
They scrub tables.
They are adding experiences to the internal data bank.
They are quietly subversive.
They are counting change.
if they appear a little vacant,
for their minds are not on
(Though they will serve yours with a smile.)
They work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They are waiting.
PrayerPlace your poems
on the lips of angels
so you can teach their wings
how it feels to fly
Mark the summer evenings
soon to come
with the grace
that carried you
warm and cherished softly
and know we will always place
among the stars.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happy
To leave their home for her newest installation piece
She cried sometimes for no reason other than
She felt like having a good cry
Her house was covered in her students’ drawings
She said the best art was produced from innocence
She went mad once, and painted canvas after canvas
In furious strokes of black
The soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew old
People shook their heads when they saw her
And whispered “poor dear” under their breath
But she was never poor
Her love for everything and everyone never died
It was swept in all directions like a summer breeze
Making people smile without knowing why
But the river rocks know
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
Photo-NegativeA weightless pause, the warmth between seconds.
“You need to feel something other than me”, and the way you said it-
Like the gazelle asking the lion not to chase her,
and many similes much worse than that.
and many smiles more cancerous than that.
and everything I say you say I say- it’s all farm grade bullshit.
Starting here, I begin to correct myself, control myself,
before the words lose their beauty by taking on far too many meanings.
I’ve cleverly described this enough times already: ants besieging a gone sparrow,
the death rattle of an air-conditioner as the summer heat takes it,
three boys swimming in a pond and only one survives their childhood.
I’ve described this enough times to know that I’ve exhausted it of figurative substance.
All that’s left is the picked clean husk of what it has always been; bitterness.
Sometimes, less words are needed to define.
Mastering MeIn another universe,
I have green eyes, curly hair,
and paint smeared across all my fingers--
a war cry of artistry
instead of needlepoint scars.
The pooch of my belly
and the lumps in my thighs
might be from anything else
but the insulin I inject four times a day.
I grow up a child, not a parent,
the master of my destiny
not running away but running toward;
I'm a little bit taller
in spirit and stature,
in all the ways that matter
when darkness creeps under the door
and phantoms howl.
I shave my legs every day
instead of once every month
once every three months
once every only now and again when I feel like it
and I'm confident--
a goddess with the stars
around her neck
instead of pearls--
in any type of heel.
In another universe,
I still trust myself
behind the wheel of a car;
I have mastered winged eyeliner
and smokey lids;
I gave up chocolate
or whatever it is
that brings on migraines
just because I could,
just because it's better for me,