When I was young and bold and strong,
Oh, right was right, and wrong was wrong!
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,
I rode away to right the world.
"Come out, you dogs, and fight!" said I,
And wept there was but once to die.

But I am old; and good and bad
Are woven in a crazy plaid.
I sit and say, "The world is so;
And he is wise who lets it go.
A battle lost, a battle won--
The difference is small, my son."

Inertia rides and riddles me;
The which is called Philosophy.

No new messages.

I don’t know where you are on the other side of the screen. But I want to know. Badly.

No new messages.

I’m not sure what I’ve become, in these seconds, of being patient.

No new messages.

My soul only wants one thing, I realize: You. Your attention. Your sympathy. Your words to make me feel better.

No new messages.

I’m going crazy now. I want you, your touch through words. I want to know that you’re listening to my thoughts. That you’re here for me.

No new message.

My patience is running out, my love for you is too. Staring at a screen, wanting something only you can give.

What has my life become? I am nothing. Saving time for you to talk to me, when I should concentrate on what’s important.

No new messages.

My life is useless. I am looking for the wrong goal. But I keep staring, hoping you’d somehow send me a message, telling me it’s ok.

No new messages.

I’m tired. I’m sorry. I can’t stop being the crazy girl I am. But I’m in love, that’s all I can say.

No new messages.

I get it, you’re not online. Fine. I’ve stopped caring. What’s the point? Forget you. I hate you. I wish we’d never met.

No new messages.

Yes, I’m still here. Can’t you see? It’s been hours, I’ve been staring at this screen since you said you’d be here. I’m not ready to give up. Are you there, somehow?

No new messages.

I’ve tried, but it’s getting late. I’m sorry. Even though I know you’re not here. Please know that I still care.

I type in a new message and then sign out.

I Love You.

My pen dances,
Across the paper.
Words pour out,
Of this once empty mind.

My stomach churns,
At this feeling,
Of joy,
For writing fairy tales.

My smile is so bright,
And wide as a flowing river.
My eyes shine and sparkle so much,
They could replace stars.

The music entering my ears,
Sends my body dancing.
Still with pen and paper in hand,
My soul screams out loud it's greatest fears.

The happiness inside me,
Sprinkles bliss around the room.
The smell of Exhilaration,
Signals my heart to start jumping.

I can't believe,
That this amazing talent,
Can do so much to me.

But, hey, that's poetry.

I would like to describe my heartbreak.
But,often, the words are collective and too sullen.
They breed in herds, one after the other, and rip themselves to pieces like my thoughts commanded them to do so.

My mouth is a cavern,
And it holds vessels upon
What ideas have managed to
Escape it.
When they tell me to speak,
An abyss grows throughout its edges
And commands features of it to be
Progidies, of masterpieces that only
Hint up out of their true meaning.

The tongue within it shakes,
Often reminded with all I am
Combined with all that I fear.
The thoughts, they run away,
And, When they tell me to speak them
I collect only their memories,
Like they would leave an impression that counts as something meaningful.

I run away.
When they tell me to speak,
I am in the forest again,
I am watching the trees, the leaves,
And i am about to burn it to the ground.
I am holding the lighter, and they are calling out my name.
They are staring at me.
They are staring at me.
But still they call my name.
And my words are in a herd, collective and teeth-bared,
But I'll never open my mouth.
I will just leave the wolves growling within me.

When they ask me to speak, they will only hear their echoes.

Early September smells
Of the familiar.
Pungent socks on hissing rads;
Cuffed wellingtons
Strewn on cloak-room floors.
Mine have my initials
In bold red letters.
Peanut butter and oranges
Douse the old rooms,
And Quick swirls in fruit jars.

Home for lunch,
Mammy serves plates
Of beans and bread
To the middle of the table,
Where she'll sit, mug in hand,
After whisking us
Out the door.

I knew she sat there,
Thinking of her
Lost children,
Buried for eternity.
Never to revisit.
No desire to.
Her kettle clouds
The kitchen;
From the vapors she heard,
Bye, Mammy.

Tomorrow, the bells
Ring again.
I'll sit with the kettle
And school days' thoughts
And life's lessons
On history
And good-byes.

love the boy who paints–
who harnesses the power of the spectrum
and brings life to his views
on the world

admire his colourful fingers
and lead stained hands.
he didn't mean to fray the
brushes like
he frayed your heart strings.

he only wants a little life
in his body and soul.
he paints with you in mind.
and when you see the crumpled up
tubes on the floor
of his bedroom,
know that they reflect
his efforts to make you happy.

The World's Times* chronicled
Crusades and Fatawas,
Jihads and Inquisitions,
Coups and Genocides.
     Such resourcefulness

The Construct.

Another Cathedral rises
In a destitute country.
     Do-able

We're told
From the leader's lips
     We'll always have the poor.

Uh huh! The poor!
That's what was said.
We can always put them to work,
And there won't always be work.
They'll need membership cards,
And birthings and burials,
Like always.

     See the pyramids along the Nile
     You get up every morning from your alarm clock's warning

Another temple
Will grow from
Rice paddies;
A synagogue,
A mosque will
Cinch tiles
On the backs of peasants.

I've had enough
Laundering by recluse
Single mothers,
By crooks posing as shepherds,
And Holy Wars
     so oxymoronic
     cleanses too

Any Divines
Benefitting from
Our labour and wages;
Our drachma, denarius and shegel,
Aren't worth the worship.
Yet the lenders are good
At getting their pound.

          *Don't drop a coin
          In a wishing well,
          Pay cash for a mass
          Where they'll ring your bell.
          Choose a charity,
          There's so many,
          That need a
          Pauper's Penny.