Learn envy—
For it does so exist.
And then uproot it from your garden—
For it renders one blind to the fragrances emanated by other flowers.

how do you do that?
break and mend me all the same.
make me cry and laugh at the same time.
I should’ve known this was a double-edged sword since the beginning, I should’ve been able to tell how much this could ruin me and move me all the same.
before all of this, warning signs were merely a disguise of false alarms. I should’ve run when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have knotted any of my strings with yours, for they are now such a struggle to pull apart.
I should’ve, I should’ve.
what am I still doing in your arms, if I should’ve?

How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”


She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever

Can you feel me through this poem?
Can you hear the metronome;
my heartbeat pulsing, calm but rapid?
Words on pages— simply vapid
glimpses to the depths of me
with fire-fed intensity,
and every line revealing more the
faulty fervor in my story.

Is it true or am I rambling?
Babbling synonyms while gambling
reasoning and rationale
to find the words to tell my tale,
with each new word confusing more
the moral that I’m striving for?

So slit my wrists and drag me bleeding
through the depths of hell, repeating.
Break my heart and bring me, wailing,
seeking comfort unavailing.
Show me beauty, gouge my eyes,
feign the truth in webs of lies.
Crush my legs and make me walk,
then stitch my mouth shut, make me talk.
Find my soulmate, **** them quick—
I’m the window, you’re the brick.

Am I sane or am I crazy?
Spewing darkness, sitting lazy—
cozy in the life I lead,
all snuggled with the cup of tea
I’m sipping in my favorite chair,
not blissful nor in great despair.

So take my hand and lead me, beaming,
through the twilight, stars a-gleaming.
Look me in the eye and slightly
bite your lip, then kiss me lightly.
Tell me secrets, hold me tightly,
whisp’ring nothings daily, nightly.
Take our picture, show your friends.
Say you’ll love me ‘til the end.
We’re both the ones we both admire,
You’re the fuel and I’m the fire.

You cannot feel me through this poem.
You cannot hear the metronome;
The pitter-patter of the rain
so calm upon my windowpane.
Words on pages— seldom stating
what I’m truly contemplating.
Am I content or rife with pain?
Is truth in words or in the rain?