ode to a friend

feeling forlorn on this midnight run
what is a friend, if not one who walks beside you?
several times i almost walked into traffic and you were not there to stop me, to tell me it was wrong
learning is not so fun alone as it is with another.
when we were little and all we cared about was playing in the mud…
i miss those times.
these are not so fun.
the days when my adventures were not hurdles to be conquered on my own
those felt so much safer
i want to search for caves that are not there, filled with make-believe bears
i want to wade through pretend swamps and dive into deep waters which are only the willows in the field.
with you those things were possible, with you my friend.
but here? there are no imagined caves – there are real caves filled with work and danger and life
there are real bears who will eat you and your clothes and your finances
there are true swamps and the more you struggle to get out, the more you are pulled into the mire and muck
and sometimes it seems the deep waters are rising over my head.
I miss the times when I would swim with you to the beach and we had not a care but to lie in the sun and avoid the burn
now i must think of skin cancer and consequences
and you must think of battle scars and the hardships that lie ahead

what keeps me going then…i will tell you though I know you are already filled with this knowledge.
soon, soon there will be a break and we will reunite.
we have a place that only we may go, because for only we know its magic
and though at times it is haunted, it is with good memories
and though at times it’s scary, we have each other to protect and like be protected by
this is one place, but there are many
and every time and everywhere is always a place when i’m with you
and there is always an adventure
and the air is always filled with laughter

and suddenly, the traffic of life is gone
the petty squalor and fights have left my life
i don’t trouble and worry about those who rise up against me
for who can with you by my side?  i know you will always be on my side, you will always defend me

on this night i make hot chocolate. i write to you. i miss my childhood, although i know that it will be rekindled in mere weeks
i know that anything is possible, and as the hot cocoa flows through me and i am warmed inside out, defrosted from the cold and terror which i have just escaped
I know that you are also warm and safe and thinking of me.

Why not Wednesday?

She got me the moment I walked in the door.
I hung my head down as I replied,
“It’s not done.”

Hint of shame in my voice,
an awkwardness to my withdrawn stance,
knowing I have done wrong.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat
as she said,
“That explains it.”

Although her voice lacked judgment,
I knew I had done wrong,
and that was enough.

Too bad it won’t stop me from procrastinating tonight.

a funny thing to see

On the way to school I passed a dump truck.  I imagined what it would be like to lay in front of it across the road.  I imagined the giant tires slowly rolling over my body, popping me like an insect.  I heard my ribs cracking; not only did they break beneath the tremendous weight but they were splintered and ground to a fine powder.  I saw the blood and organs ooze out from either side of my body and my heart burst like a bubble, the veins and arteries pouring out like a nest of cobras.

I imagined what would become of me.  I wondered what I would do every evening.  I wondered what I would do before bed.  I wondered if I’d ever get a massage again.  I wondered if I would get my homework done on time.  I wondered if I would spend days alone and nights crying.  I wondered if I would get over it, forget.  I wondered if I should wish or do something about my ability, or inability to forget about the past, to not think about the future.  To concentrate on the present – always my weak spot.

The dump truck passed by me, passed over me.  I watched my body lie on the ground.  My head was perfectly intact other than the trickle of blood that passed from my lips down my cheek.  My feet and lower legs were fine.  The middle of my body, my heart, had been crushed, smothered against the pavement.  A tire track ran over me; some of the mud caked onto the tires remained on my lifeless body.  I laughed. What a funny thing to see on the way to school.

It’s too cold

It’s cold outside, almost too cold to breathe.
The sun shines with an icy power which burns the naked skin.
Eyes water in the bright light which reflects off pavement and snow, and the tears turn to ice before they hit the ground.
This is the kind of cold which makes stone statues crumble and crack.
This is the kind of cold which penetrates coats and socks.
This is the kind of cold which matches your heart.
In reality, though, nothing could parallel that.
If you placed your heart outside in the snow, it may warm up a few degrees.
The cool of your love and the heat of passion never did mix well.  Your icy glare could smother any burning flame of fire.  You could fly too close to the burning sun with your icy waxen wings and they would not melt.
You must love days like this, days where the passionate find the air too cold to breathe; you must feel right at home.
This cold could not pierce your steel exterior,
Just as the flame of passion could not.

“Don’t close your eyes / What if it all Disappears in the shadows that reach for the stars?”

I hold my breath and close my eyes
And when I release myself I am no longer here
Sometimes you just need to get away
Sometimes the best way to do it is to just close your eyes
I am no longer me, I am no longer you
I don’t know anything in the silence of my mind
It is all closed off
My breathing is shallow and sometimes hard to make out
Am I really alive? Sometimes it’s hard to tell
The shadows cover the corners, of the room, of my eyes
Screams come from the stars
What once was silent and peaceful
Is broken.

Heels, Candy, Sparkles, and Rapper Quotes

You are the sparkliest of the dumb
You are radiant like a chipped diamond
You stand out among the crowd in that
You don’t even try to be different from it

Good for you!

You look like every other person
You talk like every other girl
You wear pink, you breathe pink
You’ve won love, you’ve lost it

You think you have conquered hardships,
but Your hardships are not above anyone else’s
You’ve been stabbed in the back,
but You don’t hesitate to turn around and say hateful words

You can quote the latest rapper,
You have Taylor Swift lyrics on your blog
everyone knows what brands You love
and You can be seen sporting the highest heels at the club

Where some people hang a poster of a forest, a countryside
You post cupcakes; candy and woman’s work is your landscape
You would rather look at a portrait of Yourself than
any dead white guy – a pop-star over Shakespeare

You can quote quotes, but I guess so can a parrot
You can wear the clothes that model had on in Vogue
but I guess even a toddler can play dress-up
it doesn’t really change who you are on the inside, does it?

and it doesn’t matter, since Your friends will always be there
to support You, or stab Your back – sometimes that’s one in the same
and when your claim to fame is strictly insane in that You’re loved
because of how bitchy You’ve been
and not because of the things You’ve seen
and I can’t imagine having even one dream
remotely the same as created in Your monstrous being

lets pump out the drones and breed the clones
and then you can count the number of shoes that You own
and let’s look at the magazines You have stacked
and the celebrities that you’ve seemed to have racked
up to idolize while you’re infantilized
by your friends and loved ones

I can’t wait for the day
when that all disappears when they all go away
because, remarkably enough, there are a million of You
and You’re all interchangeable in a moment or two

Your fame will blow away and it’s quite a shame
that Your beauty will fade and children will take your place
as You breed and spawn while sitting and yawning
babies all over the place and a couple nannies to
instil in them the value of un-love and Hepburn’s grace

while You’re getting fat and old
and the husband count is one untold
You’ll still be happy surrounded by your things
and of course, the dollar amount of Your gathered rings

You’ll see me at the local coffee shop,
but you won’t recognize me
I won’t be there with candy, or glitter, or brand name heels,
and God forbid I should have little ones
bickering over meals

You won’t recognize the happiness I have
because it doesn’t come in a box
or a bag – it’s not attached to a price tag
it’s a not a mink fur or a coat made from fox

it’s not made of candy or glitter or rapper quotes,
it’s not made from the length of my leg in four inch heels
it can’t be bought, and it’s definitely not
found in a bargain bin with dressed up deals

in fact, it comes and it goes
it’s not found or defined by the amount of “hoes”
or “bitties” I’m friends with – in fact use those words with me
and I’ll give you another side de moi to see

while you degrade yourself, and don’t even know it
I’m sitting here, becoming a poet,
and getting as much difference from You and Your hoes as I can
…to think I could ever call someone like you a friend…

Enjoy the glitter, the glamour, the booze,
enjoy “life” as you call it and living with selfish attitudes
live only for Yourself every fucking hour
glory to You in the highest, peace on earth, and new Prada to every man
(waiter, please don’t forget her whiskey sour)