There's a girl who would dream of sitting on a cloud

So she could look down and watch the world pass by.

Because the voices around her were deafeningly loud

And it would be quiet alone in the sky.

And the girl got her wish and looked down at the earth,

And in the absence of sound, her head began to pound

Without any tethers, she questioned her worth.

So she screamed just to hear another sound.

And her cry became the thunder,

And her tears fell down as rain,

And they threatened to pull her under

Unless she'd live again.

And so she had no choice but to let herself fall,

Back to the noise and work and pain

Because alone in her storm with no one to call,

She could only hope to get lost in the rain.

So many wonderful words we write,

When we dream of a seed and sow it.

A novel or sonnet may come to light

If we take the time to grow it.

And many are they but plenty are we

Who would yearn to be the poet.

Lovers embrace on the moon tonight

Should our pens' pretenses show it,

And an angel's wing will want for flight

Should the villain reveal what's below it

For limitless bliss or the fury of those

Who would yearn to be the poet.

From the dawn of man at the start of time

One would pick up a verse and bestow it

Upon thirsty mind set afire by a rhyme

A fine lyricist would overflow it

And words were like wine dripping down upon those

Who would dare to be the poet,

Or might care to undergo it

Remember the past or ignore the day

Come the troubadour, minstrel, and bard

Leaving doubt behind, keeping woe at bay

And distresses, disregard

When the words of a beautiful, dutiful voice

bring a healing to the scarred.

Very few children understand

And many who do outgrow it

The Raven, Silence, Fairy-Land

And his name, you surely know it

For it was Edgar Allan's hand

Which put the Poe in poet

And as a child, remarkable he

Was a poet and didn't even acknowledge the fact.

shes sighs at the table and signs the paper

she hugs me

and tells me it's going to be okay

"5 minutes" the lady in the suit says

tells me she loves me

and that she didnt mean it

straightens my clothing

"it'll just be a weekend or two"

an unplanned lie

the woman walks in the door

"i love you, Sweets. make sure she goes with her brother"

she says to me, then my social worker

only 2 visits afterwards

im 17 now

it's been 9 years

I have lots of favorites but if I had to pick just one it would be Allen Ginsberg. Here goes…

oh feminine beauty

oh curves and muscle

breasts and perked nipples

curve of ass

lick of soft hair

eyes with long lashes

sutra vagina

light of sun and day

clitoris the window to ecstasy

you are the only true poetry

the only true song

the only music

you are the infinite

the enlightenment

the blip in the mind of Buddha

the only true bodhisattva

you are dreams and consciousness

you are life and death

you are the reason, the meaning

the only truth

you are that which turns the world

Magic admired

In the dark woods

Or perhaps collected

In a borrowed glass jar

Having to remind yourself

Wonder was never meant

To be contained

I used to have so many conversations with you in my head because I felt I couldn’t speak to you

that stopped the day I let you go

the conversations turned into reflections of the last two decades

I sang “If I could turn back time” so many times that I believe I actually did

and now that time is convoluted, I find myself reflecting at times and other times, I’m having those conversations with you again

but not the same ones

not the ones about how I feel about your apathy

no, now it’s just wishing I could share the mundane events of my life with you

then I remember the last time that happened and I can’t help but feel that maybe time is running out

time has always been running out

but maybe we’re closer to the end than we can imagine

it’s happened to me twice before and I didn’t know what it meant

third time’s the charm, but unlike a few months ago, I don’t want to turn back time anymore

now all that comes to mind is, “What a wicked game to play to make me feel this way,

what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…”

An autodidact in self-harm,

she gets hopes up, smitten, blushing.

Though not for her, she'll crave his charm.

His deflection-- cold, crushing.

She hates herself, her unchecked smarm.

Alarms and flags-- they mean nothing.

She'll run straight to, all good sense fled,

when they're her preferred color… red.