to see if I could be
quiet enough for the barred owl
or the pileated woodpecker
to turn his beaded eye
towards me
I wish I could
do more than type keys
that stand for letters
that add up to words
that tally up to meaning
in the early evening,
surrounded by browning leaves
as I also age
on solid ground
Play 'Stay'
by Jackson Browne
for sentimental reason
at 2 AM when I don't want to go home
This is living in 'Our Town'
by Thorton Wilder
Emily's monologue
is always worth a listening crowd
"Good-by to clocks ticking....
and Mama's sunflowers"
Don't forget "hot baths"
because if you never had one
you just wish for water
where is the poem I always wanted to write?
The one that reminds people of the works of Samuel T. Coleridge?
Where is my Raven piece, which rivals Poe’s?
Where is the prancy-dancy write that sounds like Dr. Seuss?
Where is the poem I know is in me somewhere
The elusive poem that can be put to a melody
Transferring into CMA’s song of the year?
Where is that poem? The one I dance to as I construct it?
where is the poem that takes the reader’s soul away?
The poem that shakes them up and spits them out
Where is the poem that makes them shudder and scream?
Where is the poem that others wish they had written?
Where is the poem hidden in the shadow of my mind
The one that lurks just beneath my dendrite highway?
The elusive poem that I evades me, in blips and dashes
where is the poem I always wanted to write?
Take another bite
Just one more
What could it hurt?
Craving the taste of comfort
Only to sit in guilt for hours
Wondering if I’m feeding myself
Or the voice that hates me
Skipping meals because you had one bite too many
Or a snack, then another and another
Drink your water
It doesn’t have calories
But wishing you could enjoy the fizz of a soda like everyone else seems to do
Not eating at all
But you’re still full of guilt
Lose weight and it isn’t enough
Gain weight and you’re not doing enough
Learning to avoid offers with excuses
A stomachache, low appetite or simply not being hungry
But something is always hungry
Whether it’s your stomach or your mind
And even when your hunger lies somewhere else
Your stomach will always be the problem
And though you watch your body change
Day after day
The voice remains the same
And it never wanted food
So don’t take another bite
Not one more
What could it hurt?
She had always been told she had to be four
Before her parents would let a puppy in the door
You might hurt him, or he might hurt you they said.
She thought she’d never get a puppy, this girl Ted.
Her whole name was Theadora, but they called her Ted.
She was semi-named after her goofy uncle Ned Zed Ed.
A Golden Retriever jumped into her lap on Christmas Eve.
She was finally four, now her parents she could believe.
i was a frog who wanted to be king
until i realized i couldn't even sing
a songbird shrilled
"you're only a croaker out of tune"
still i stood on my stump with a tortured smile
croaking my heart out all the while
i dreamed of being a stand-up crooner
a swamp-side sinatra maybe a little sooner
the crickets laughed
the herons one-legged stared
every fragile dream i swallowed
sat inside me
broken and unprepared
the wart-filled toad spat from his lily pad
"you’re stretching your skin boy
settle into the scum"
i carried an empty pond inside
where a thousand thorny dreams went to die
the audience left
the moon went home
a cold blue screen spit its light onto the scum
unthinking
no one returned my croak
i died a little every time i tried
my face looked back from the pond
mud-covered
wart-covered
ugly
my reflection looked away
all it could do was cry
today the water settled
the mud claimed the surface
when i looked down
there wasn’t even a frog
left to die
werewolf did not think he was scary enough
He wanted to dress like a pirate or other stuff
Maybe a mummy he said, but he looked so silly
The rest of us laughed are petootsies off said Dilly
When I lay down at night,
All I feel is such a fright,
Never quite alone, just out of sight.
To be alone — how is it, you may ask?
Expectedly, it's not an easy task.
Do I suffer or simply wear a mask?
Before I say, you must know,
Ultimately, it is something I cannot bestow.
Tomorrow comes far too slow.
Not once did I say I am losing the war,
Even though I'm hurting within my core,
Vacant soul, punishing me — nothing to restore.
Eventually, I know my time will come,
Respectively taking me, and I feel numb,
Embracing the freedom from others' scum.
Neglecting to see the life I've lived,
On top of that, I feel deceived.
Undoubtably, stuck — and I grieved.
Grieving throughout my days, don't call my bluff.
Horribly wanted, but never enough.
The Chosen
People say not being the chosen one is the worst.
But what if it isn’t?
What if you’re chosen—
but for all the wrong reasons?
Yes, I was chosen,
just to be a measuring tool—
something to compare,
against unfinished things,
just to feel better about yourself.
Like a trophy,
kept in plain sight,
on a neatly managed shelf.
Only ever looked at
from a distance—
always just a glance,
never long enough to notice.
Perhaps if they had,
they would have seen the rust.
Yes, I was chosen—
as the permanent wrong choice,
the one that reminds you
of what you could have had.
Like a roll of dice—
“if only I had thrown it differently,
if only I got another number…”
If only.
I was always the what if.
I was chosen—
but only to blame,
like how you blame the corner
when you stub your toe.
Never atleast a deserving blame.
There’s a difference
between being chosen
and being wanted.
What’s the point of being chosen
if all you hear
is the echo
of the one who wasn’t?
Who is truly chosen?
And how do you even define it?
What’s the point of being chosen
if wanting never follows?
A film I've long wished to see
showed peps a way out of sight.
Watching alone set me free.
Scouts with cookies knocked my night.
Then you came.
And I didn’t fold.
I didn’t shrink.
You wanted me—
all of me,
not the parts I had carved down
so I could fit into someone else’s hands,
not the shape I thought I had to be
to survive.
I could finally stretch.
I could speak.
I could take up space.
And you let me.
You held me
without needing me to be small,
without trying to shape me
into something easier, lighter, quieter.
And for the first time,
I felt it:
the calm, the relief, the quiet joy
of being wanted
for exactly who I am.
I am not a tool.
I don’t belong in someone’s pocket.
I am not a shadow
to be borrowed when convenient.
I am me.
And you want me.
And that is enough.
Baby the ballerina insisted on wearing a pumpkin tutu
Actually, her mother did it, for she knew what to do
Grandma helped because she was a seamstress too
Audience was amazed because the pumpkin showed through.
Ah, I wanted snow
for Christmas, Lord,
but it came a day too late;
no kids came out,
all was darn quite!
Ah, I was waiting inside
for tons of snow...
where did Charlie Brown go?
I had my green hat on
and Santa's red suit,
I could swear they would
think I was him in flesh
and bones: what a clown!
I just resembled him,
a fat face with dimples,
they all laughed
at me, because
my belly was slim!
A spark of genius hit me,
I stuffed two big pillows
under my suit to look plum;
they didn't think it was funny.
they asked if I could make it snow,
I wasn't the Wizard of Oz,
nothing I could do; I said,
" Sorry to disappoint you,
it will make you blue! "
Darn kids, they jumped on me
and flattened my belly,
they laughed feeling so silly;
sunset came, no snow
in sight, wait up boys,
I'll make a wish, in minutes...
snowflakes fell on the lawn:
was it magic or a miracle?
The snowfall excited all!
Yes
Yes
I never wanted people to see it
Sometimes a terrible actor breaks your back
Has more than you will ever have
The thought of letting a grenade gutter their face,its...
I'll let you say it(the thought)
We all cross the prison as a sheriff and a lifer and wait on the greatest both and worst things to make it to every
Single breath and life
Then theres the epiphany and I said let them see it have no effect
I have model citizens in my granted wreaths and let them kneel to those who never realized who they were
I'll let you say it
Where did amnesty let go of us as its too clear that it didn't hold on to anything
Yes
I get it.
I’m lovable
yeah, the kind you call sweet,
safe,
easy to be around.
The one you text when your world’s too loud,
when you need peace,
not passion.
I’m the soft landing
after someone else’s chaos,
the calm before your next mistake.
But I’m not the kind you crave.
Not the body your hands remember
in the dark.
Not the name that slips out
when you shouldn’t be saying mine.
I could starve myself
into silence,
shrink until my bones
spell worthy
but even then,
I know it wouldn’t be enough.
You’d still look past me,
like warmth without fire,
light without pull,
a heartbeat without desire.
And I’m not hurt
by the words you said
no, I’m hurt
by realizing
they might be true.
That no matter how I change,
how I bleed myself
into a smaller shape,
I’ll still be the one
you like
but never reach for.
The one you trust,
but never touch.
The one who’s almost enough
but never quite wanted.
So yeah,
I’ll smile like it doesn’t ache,
laugh like I don’t see it
the truth that hums
under every glance.
I am lovable.
But not desired.
The comfort before the craving.
The story before the sin.
The almost
you never choose.
Zero false prophesy
More respect is my plea
More unity should be our plan
Less politics is my prayer
Less lies yield more purity
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