A Day in the Lives of Foxes and BirdsOver blue marble counter tops,coins click between fidgety fingersand people loiter, cluster,shuffle, ruffle their clotheslike birds dipping their beaksto the asphalt in the packed parking lothoping for nesting papers and food.With rustling plastic bags clenchedin palms still prying destiny from time-worn lifelines,his pupils appear parrot-pinpointin hasty decisions and desperation.Before he leaves, he chirrups at mefrom the wrong side of the register--"Do you need a husband?"And I, fox-sly and slippery in the reeds of my day,hold back laughter and answer with a straight face--"I've already got one,but thank you anyway."
boys dont cryand the waythat your handholds onto minefeels like the noose around my neck,i'm trying to hang myselfoff yourmarionettes.no - i'm not dead yet.but your thoughtsare bulletsand your words are gunsand when they shoot me in the headyou cure it with a band aidbecause you don't havea medical degree yet.your kisses have left meblack and bluewhile i still usethe mug you gave meas an ash tray.and i'm holding onto the lip stick stainson the dresserwearing them around my neckto hide how you tookmy breath away.
brutal honestyHave you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I amand what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.S T O P and think for a second and say,who are y o u, are you happy with whatyou d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;but are they enough?Be h o n e s t.are you w h oyou want to be?O R are y o u,j u s t y o u ?False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you knowin the end h o n e s t y will feel like a numbing narcoticthat eases the a c h e and lets the gash become
my old friendthe warmth against your cold embracesettles my bones in for the long months.your beauty in the stoic days is unique;placid white trees of lace, glass drippingfrom the rooftops.i'm sorry i hated you so,please come back
...RealidadesÁngeles y RealidadesLas siluetas de los ángeles bailaban en la niebla,y aquellos niños reían entre esmeros, entre sueños,los miraban, los llamaban, corrían, corrían tras ellos,saltaban, jugaban, perseguían su alegría, vivían.En la lejanía, el fuego se alzaba y las cenizas regían,las cenizas de las letras llevadas por el viento.Crecían, tan de repente, se abrazaban, sonreían,dormían bajo el parpadeo de las luciérnagas,desnudos, en paz, entre flamas y formas,la pasión moría en el suspiro de la inocencia.Tan oscuras las sombras dibujadas en la distancia,las dudas, el porqué de no poder alcanzarlas.¿Por qué? Están tan cerca, ahí al frente,entre danzas confusas, en silencio, en negro.¡No! Ella gritaba, puedo verlos, aunque lejos,Él decía: solo son nuestras sombras, fue así siempre.Entre lágrimas, entre sus sombras y las del
Funny Little MenI am a coalesce of the darting goblins from the crisscrossing tangles of my aging,from the clown’s laugh which made me weep bitterly, to the old farmer’s cautionthat tasted for me my first lick of self-conscious toxin,I am an old figurehead with these faces costuming me head to footas much as I attempt to shatter this stream drinking me to ledge’s jump I cannot sufficientlyunhinge my brandisherwith every other mechanism of my force I made chance to pull the tapestry discordant waysfor moments those watching lost their sneerI jerked myself from that course and again into stony comprehensionThe twisting follower was gaining my steps again—I mirrored its struggleAs it regained a uniform I fell still beside itAnd finally the stream faced me ahead, we looked upon one another, I could not sufficientlyUnhinge my brandisher, so I dangled upon the trigger, and charged, hurling my own hand
he's not a poet but his words are goldhe wasn't what most girls would call a blessing.he wasn't smartand was bad at playingthe guitar.he didn't haveblue eyes and long eyelasheshe didn't havea mysterious past lifeand his parents weren't rich.but when he sang to meand played the guitar -i didn't care that it sounded like my aunt's ten year old cat.because at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand i could still smellthe sweat on him after a long day at work.he was horrible at cookingbut that didn't matter because i was tooand we were happysitting in front of our TVwatching Jimmy Neutronand eating last night's Chinese take out.and he wasn't perfect -i won't tell you how many timeshis words have made me wantto kill myself.he couldn't understandthat he hurt meand he never knew how to fix itbut that's okaybecause at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand we could both hearour heartbeats -just because they weren't in harmonydoesn't mean that they couldn't sound like music.
Teenagers in a Wasteland. I've decided to cake the shadows under my eyes with contempt, filled to the rim of my eyelids. My armor is the moon stone earrings I slide into my earlobes and the one cuff, cause' I'm not that much of a rebel.Remembering that when I was little I used to wear two color socks, always.The left always came first.And in a sea of mindless faces that drift like puppets on broken strings I see them.We have called them poets, rebels without a cause, misfits.With heads up high and the darkest murder red tainting their lips.Forward, they strive. Constellations of dried tears on their cheeks, but those smiles, like the stream of light on a rainy day. Or for some, the starch lighting of desert summer storms, the heat palpitating from their body. Ridiculed to no end, they strive in humiliation and eat their regrets for breakfast. Downing them with their calming pills. May it be a cigarette, stow-ay on their lips, or a
PumpkinsWatching the playful characters,run up and down the spooky streets.Laughing,while running from house to house.Searching for candy;they always stop to look at us.They smile at us,for I bring joy this time of year.Lighting up the night,we add spark to the haunted house.The horseman's head,with a scary Jack O' Lanterns face.Our spices fill the air,with your lattesand pies.People travel farand wide.To come pick us,even celebrating that.With the corn fields,and apple cider.The leaves even change,to orange.Our seeds can be roasted,with oiland garlic salt.Pastries and pancakes,we are the main ingredient.For everyone loves us,around this time of year.They decorate us,bake us,draw us,smash us,pick us,and replant us.Because even when Halloween is over,we still come back next year.