do something for me, okay?
tell my story at my funeral.
you’re gonna want to say no,
but how do you say no to a dead girl?
you can’t say no to me anyway, can you?

that’s my girl.
you never could.
so, will you tell them?
will you tell everyone
the reason i’m this way?

the reason my hands are useless,
sewn onto my wrists for show?
the reason you see me beside you,
femoral artery on display?
the reason my eyes stay glassy,
hyperfocused on nothing at all?

will you tell them of all
the things you were there for,
the things you saw,
the things you heard?
how you were the only witness,
every step of the way?

i think you will.
tell it all.
[we won’t mention that
when i needed you most,
at the end,
you weren’t there for me either.]

why didn’t you help me?
why didn’t you tell anyone about
all my razorblades, all my pills?

they were practically hand-fed to me,
and where were you?

right beside me, but not where you needed to be.
not helping me, only protecting me.
you protected me to death.

oh, did that hurt?
my apologies.
i guess i’m bitter.

anyway, the last thing i wanted to say?
is thank you.

thanks for finally letting me go.

Will never be
For lack of trying
that I'm alone

You happen to be one
It's bright in your eyes
evident in your movements
thick on your breath
as savoury as your flavour

                                                   Tantalizingly deadly
                                                    you're bad for my health
                                                             my soul
                                                                           my virtue
                                                                                            my conscience
                                                    my heart sees you differently
                                                   -"keep trying, he will love, he will... will"

We are caught in a battle of will
Will his heart open?
Will his hold on me falter?
Will it be to late?

                                                          I am entangled with a
                                                          Deadly Sin
                                                          He is lust
                                                          I am defenseless

What is involved in being poetic?
Is it that you have to bleed
when you feel
or remember what you felt like?

Is there a spark in your brain?
Does it tell you the words,
does it give you rhyme,
does it command your thoughts?

Or does it come from the heart?
Is it pumped through your veins,
breathed into your lungs,
is it in every fibre of your being?

What is it, to be a poet?
Is it skill?
Is it random?
Is it learned?

It is you.
You are a poem.

A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet

A rose gazed upon through tears
can never be as meaningful
as the day it was given in
love

Black streaks race down
the flushed flesh of my face

A rose that stood for love
now stands for something lost

A rose sways solemnly
in a bed of forgotten flowers
the life ****** from its
youthful petals
though Death will ne'er take it

A rose by any other name
has thorns that pierce

Locks for locks
and chicken pox,
a childish fit
for childish thoughts

Left for dead
left, right, red,
confused with age
but young in head

Youth will yield to age.
Truth will tell all rage,
hidden in a heart,
hidden in your art.

Expressed without much thought,
emotion caught off guard.
Perhaps your mask needs healing,
facades that must be peeling.

And still I'm feeling lost
Myself, my own, my frost
My cold demeanor falls.
They say, "Just grow some *****."

For gender dictates most,
and blenders will play host
to mixing and to matching
pretending I am acting,
pretending I exist.

Like sinews and sutures,
Our bodies interlock,
Separated only by our breath.

Softer skin would be a liquid,
and softer eyes would be transparent.
A softer smile would be a kiss,
experienced by sight.

An arm, a clutch, your fingers crossed,
with words I lie here as I lay.
And in our words are we so lost,
but "we" is how we'll find our way.

A forest waiting to be cleared,
Impending doom for innocence,
Our kisses and our thoughts appear
Already dying, in a sense.

But senses don't deceive themselves,
Like light which yonder breaks.
Morning brings me mild mourning:
It's you the daytime takes.

So stay in spirit, tangled one,
Or overstay your stay.
And no more mourning will be found,
If we have our way.

The Doctor named Seuss was such a great man.
He wrote words so deftly like few others can.
In fact, to this day we honor his rhyme,
Or, I do, at least, to waste all my time.

It's odd how with frequence I get up the urge
To write tiny ditties: a poetry surge.
I'm volted to pen any number of things,
Shocking, to me, like a staticky sting.

Whenever I am s'posed to be working,
I notice that my duties I'm shirking.
Perhaps without pressure my mind is more fun,
But by the same token, I get nothing done.

Maybe I study so well that it spills
Onto my other thinking-type skills.
My mind works so hard that it often requires
More wood to fuel my thinking cap's fires.

Anyways, I'm probably ******* for my test.
I wish I could say that I studied my best,
But honesty stabs me for truth til I'm ******:
The truth is that I fail when I "study."

the price you pay
for kindness
is costly, but
your highness
has all the patience at disposal.
in kind he pays at his proposal.

the sacrifice undying
yields truth, but what i'm buying
is patience more to pay
for smiles day to day.

the smiles have been paid for.
your patience is your labor,
and all that you have cherished
is worth the scene embarrassed.

for sacrifice is needed
to see your words are heeded,
and silence for those years,
was worth to quell her fears.