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A Little Crush That Makes Me Feel StupidSo cute
And so sweet.
That is what he is like.
He has such
A comfortable aura,
I can easily slip into it
Without being hurt,
Or in pain.
And he is so kind . . .
“Do you really think I’m beautiful?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
A nervous thrumming.
Here, in my chest.
And a warm tingle
Along my cheeks.
And lately we’ve been talking.
“I don’t know what it is but I really feel
Comfortable with telling you anything.
Is that weird?”
No, I think.
In fact, it was what
I was hoping for.
You would like me in return.
The Happy SparrowThe other day as I walked home in a sprinkling shower, that is quite common in Oregon around this time of the year, I saw the most precious thing.
People are always busy. We’re going to school or work, making plans for dinner for our families or planning a date with that special someone. We are always in the next, instead of in the now. What is going to happen next, what will happen tomorrow, what sort of plans I have for the weekend. We’re looking forward. But when you take that moment to really look around and see what is there before you it can take your breath away. That moment when you notice the smallest thing, something you normally wouldn’t see, it somehow makes things brighter. I couldn’t tell you how, but I guarantee it does.
I walked down Clinton in this little sprinkle on my way home from talking with a teacher about my final, thinking thoughts and listening to sweet song that reminded me of him, when I noticed the sparrows. They flittered back and f
Breaking My Own HeartIdle fantasies
And pretty little daydreams.
Lies that I wish were true.
Lies that I had created.
Lies that only I know about.
Lies that I want to tell myself.
Dreams that will never come true.
Fantasies that will never happen.
So why do they exist?
Why do I torment myself?
Because you know you'll never have it
You'll never find love
You'll never be happy
I hate these dark thoughts . . .
But without them
I go back to dreaming.
But when I wake up
The reality is painful.
So why do I do this?
Why do I even have feelings?
Why must I like someone
That I may never have?
. . . I always seem to break my own heart . . .
I AmI am a thinker
And I am a dreamer.
I wonder about lives
And life itself.
I wonder if nothing is true
And everything is permitted
Within our own minds.
I wonder about choice
I hear the whisperings of a mind.
Both my own, and another's.
I see the dreams
That haunt me where I go.
And ghosts of a past and future.
I want recognition
And to stand in the light.
I want to continue dreaming.
I am a thinker
And I am a dreamer.
I pretend to be
Those unlike myself
To get me through the day.
I feel connected
And detached at the same time.
I touch a world
Through pages and ink,
And my own mind.
I worry about tomorrow.
I cry over what seems to me
To be the silliest of things.
I am a thinker
And I am a dreamer.
I understand the things of our world
I say the truth.
I say what is right.
And I say what I believe I have a right to say.
I dream of everything.
I try so hard to stay true.
I hope for what is better.
I am a thinker
And I am a dreamer.
Forever in BloomEvery night I have this dream about a cherry tree in bloom that stands alone on a high and grassy hill, just at the base of a mountain. It's such a strange place for a tree. But it's only a dream. I used to think that until recently however. In my dream I watch this tree constantly as time passes. I watch it from the earliest morning when the shadows stretch to the west to when there is nothing but moonlight. I watch it during a sizzling summer, a brisk autumn, a harsh, blustery winter and a vibrant spring. Then over again.
You might ask why I'm so interested in an ordinary tree. But it's not ordinary. It is constantly in bloom. It never changes, and never dies. No matter how often the fall wind tries to shake its branches clear or how much snow covers it. No matter how cold it gets the cherry blossoms retain their gorgeous pink hue, and the tree continues to hum with a warm, smiling spring. Even when some of those blossoms fell off new ones grew back in their place. During
The Ones That Make the Show LiveStand by!
"House is open!"
"Thank you house is open!"
People file in
Then take their seats.
Put away those
You need to be ready
To appreciate our hard work!
House lights die . . .
The silence yells.
Curtain rises . . .
It's show time . . .
. . . Actors take a bow
As the curtain closes.
"We did it!"
We all say after the show.
Turn off the sound board,
Turn off the light board,
And make sure
You have your apple cider at the after party.
We know how to have a good time,
And we know,
How to have a good laugh.
We are the techies of the show.
Just A DollI'm just a doll.
A doll that can be played with.
They want to brush my hair.
They want to dress me.
They want to paint my face.
They want to make me dance.
The doll cannot move
Unless told to do so.
The doll cannot make decisions.
To them, those are simply the rules.
Didn't you know?
There are rules.
And they're very strict.
. . .
I want to think for myself God damn it!
I want to choose my own clothes!
I want to put my hair up
The way that I want it!
I want to be comfortable in my own skin!
I don't want to be told
Whether I should be ashamed or not!
I don't want to be forced anymore!
I WANT MY VOICE TO BE HEARD!
. . .
. . .
But then again . . .
Dolls aren't supposed to have a voice.
The End of My PlayA talented man once said
"All the world's a stage, and all
The men and women
The world is my stage,
My life is a play,
And I am merely
A lone actor.
I am a character
In a plot
I Know nothing of.
And it is unclear
What will happen
To the character
That is me.
During the final act
We will know
Of each player.
And I will know
My character's end
When the curtain
My FaultI was right.
I was too scared.
She was happy
To like someone like him.
She trusted him
Like an old best friend.
I didn't know him.
I didn't trust him.
I was too paranoid.
But she was happy.
And that should've been enough.
She wanted happiness.
But he wanted something "else".
A no led him to
Change his mind.
Now she lays
Heartbroken in bed.
Because I was right.
I was right . . .
I was right all along.
I was right and I wish I wasn't.
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Song of First SnowfallI fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on goodnessbe good.
be an angel.
be better than that, even.
be a demon.
do what you want, when
you want, how you want
to do it. because no one
can tell you what is good.
the same ones
telling you what is good
are the same ones
who left their
children crying in gutters
the same ones
who said that the war
the same ones
who said that
you don't deserve rights
if you don't use them the same
way that they do-
the same ones that, given
the opportunity, would hang you
up by the skin on your shoulders
in a museum to point at and say,
'see, children, this is
what happens when you aren't good.'
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More