the saddest poem

is the one that's never finished,

lines left unedited

or unwritten.

thoughts left unmade

art left half-finished,

a sketch in a dusty notebook

where the pages have rotted.

the saddest poem

is the one that's never finished,

the one that's never gotten to finish its life.

the one that never got to breathe.

the saddest poem is the one

that stays left in your hard drive

or scribbled on a sticky note,

unable to touch strangers' hearts

with a few words.

the saddest poem

is the one that was never finished.

My dear hoebag, we meet again. As if once weren't enough, you've descended upon yet another English class and thrown us all into melancholy. Yoi do knoe that everyone hates you. You spent your life dick-riding royalty, so you could keep pumping out those hits. I respect your hustle, I do, but yiu have screwed yourself for many future generstions. If you ever come back, there will be a line of irritated freshmen with baseball bats waiting for you, and Hawthorne too. I actually have more qualms with him, but I've read more of your stuff so this is more personal, in a way.

I'm not going to lie, the nerd in me does really adore you. The ridiculousness of your plays is actually quite impressive. Two kids fucking once and deciding to get married and live happily ever aftee, but can't so they die? That's some shit if I've ever heard it. Little guy doesn't get a promotion so he vows to destroy his boss's life? Jesus, that sounds like a Friday night thriller show. Girls run away to the woods to do something (I skimmed it; it was senior year) still sounds like a marketable plot today.

I think we only hate you because of ye olde language. Everyone loves a good dick-n-balls joke but not when we have to google every word. "Thy scrotildum wath itchity for thine diddled with a tart." No one understands that. You're like the world's funniest Latin comedian. Everything you say is hilarious, but everyone who can understand it has been dust for ages. Except Betty White. It's an old joke and the Queen of England has most likely inherited the friendships your pole jocking created, so I'm not getting beheaded. In short, I love to hate you because it's popular. Just like shitting on the French was popular in your day (I read THAT loud and clear). There's trchnically nothing wrong with you, but when I blow a raspberry after your name, it gets a laugh so socially, there's apparently something wrong with you. I do appreciate the forced gayness though. If you'd written Mulan, that would've been your funniest play yet.

Why wish on a star?

All too far away to wait

From here to there and back

Spent a lifetime of waiting

Visible light from years ago

Wish on one that’s falling?

It’s not even a star

Gaze up to those abandoned wishes

Millions of hopes and dreams

Waiting an eternity

Infinite fantasies

All so meaningless now

Why sit and wait for the time to arrive

Take off to greet it halfway

-I speculate gazing up at a lonely light (my star)

Dear me,

You're doing fine, kiddo. It's okay to still be figuring stuff out. Wear that crazy outfit, mix alcohols, procrastinate your term papers, it'll be okay. Be bold in your choices. Some of them will stick with you for life. (Don't be scared; these additions are good things.) You know who you are, and you're figuring out who you could be. That's beautiful.

Be strong. Be curious. Be kind. Be resilient. (You already are.) I'm proud of you, kiddo.

-- You (a little older)

Don't forget your memories. When you throw away a memory, you can't get it back. It's like having a dream, good or bad, then waking up and not remembering it. Someday, you'll want to remember those dreams. I know you're a goldfish brain, but that does not give you any excuse because you can write those memories down. (Probably why you can write because if you couldn't you'd be in a bit of a pickle). Best of luck, your younger self.

P.S. If you're still single, it's ok. Being single has it's perks.

Falling in love with taking care of the self.

Falling in love with letting go of the past fears,

of chasing away the needs for self-justification.

Today I am surrendering myself to joy, bliss and bountiful heavenly grace.

That voice, whoever you are,

keeping on beating the back of my head:

“How could you justify your existence?”

No, I don’t. I do not need to justify myself no more.

I am my own sovereign-being, and

divine source of co-creation.

Interwoven within my own tender, vulnerable womanhood and feminine mystery,

my very core being’s deeply embedded code,

seeding the very wisdom—source of life’s light and

webbing of a sacred body temple.

Through my own rhythmic breath and pulsating blood veins,

every single cell of my consciousness is threaded into this one unity,

unity with the core wound of Grandmother Gaia.

I am enough, I am sufficient and bountiful, I just AM.

There is no need for me to prove or justify to,

no one, no more.

I am a silver acorn dropped upon this earthly plane,

written within my cell DNA,

imprinted the very quintessence, and

secret of my own universe & galaxy.

From the very depth of the soul,

I am born with this incontestable knowingness and certainty, that:

No matter how many layers of shame or doubts;

No matter how many times such strong forces of

skepticism and caustic cynicism,

that are trying to snatch away

the very light of my soul-window...

Throbbing through my heart’s red webbing and fabrics of my very core being,

I will always find a four-leaves clove,

resonating and rippling out

sparkling rainbow prismatic light of the golden sun..

Always striving for the brighter side of life, and

keep on lifting my chin up high.

From the abysmal bottom of life’s swan-pit,

I can still rise and thrive,

I will always break open my own path, and weave it into

a tapestry of light, hope and love…

Love to myself, and license to love.

Write more. Draw more. Paint more. Try harder.

What else? Work-out more. Our metabolism has slowed down a LOT. It kinda sucks. Oh and quit smoking.

Otherwise, no worries. Don't stress so much. Things will work out. Trust me.

I would be too afraid to say anything else, to be honest. I'm not even sure I'd say anything here I've written. I wouldn't want to fuck up what I have now. My life is awesome.

Your ghost walks these halls

Breathes ice onto my mirror

Comments on my choice of whole wheat toast

Cradles me like a casket

Haunts me like a song

Your ghost dances these floors

Leaves words written on my walls

Laughs when I can’t find the keys

Hums like a premonition

Hovers like a head-cold

Your ghost holds these dusty bones

With creaking steps

And silent echoes

I was eighteen when I ment him. He told me it was going to be a long night. I woke up my body was sore. I screamed at the reflection that was looking at me. What the fuck happened? You fucking whore. I was confused. Three years of looking in the mirror. I cried, and walked out the door. Never looking back.

Where is he? Maybe he’s got cold feet. I was scared on the inside. I was so embrassed. There he was high as a kite. Talking shit.

“What! You thought I was going to Marry your Sorry Ass.Huh.”

“Look don't start with me! You crazy ass fool.”

“No! You’re the fool. Get out of my house.”

Penniless and broken. I left my life behind to be a Nun.

Our honymoon. Drunk and passed out. Now he comes home late. Someone is blowing up his phone. I go upstairs. I hear his conversation. I fly downstairs, see the screen. He’s watching their sex tape. Guilty. He punches me in the face. We fighting toe to toe, house a wreck. Police is at the door.

"Damn! I got this."

Arsenic and Old Lace. What a fine movie that was? Widow.

I can't hold out any longer.

I can't make the climb-

I thought I was stronger...

They won't get here in time.

Hopeless, I breathe in.

The sun burns in my eyes.

Lungs like fire- how strange...

Covered in blankets as my body dries.

Hot outside, cold inside, immense pain.

They must have made it in time.