Blue

Your love is blue, like ocean,
crashing down in waves.
Sometimes rough;
sometimes calm.
It's beauty never-resting.

21st Century Cinderella

Not a very good one. But it's new, and I wrote it off the cuff.


Who is the master of my soul?
To whom am I enslaved?
Who whips my spirit bloody
til my morals are decayed?

Who is the captain of my mind?
Who controls my thoughts?
Who chains me as intelligence
just wears away and rots?

Who is the ruler of my body?
For whom am I tied down
as my remaining innocence
just drifts away and drowns?

Catherine

A poem I wrote, inspired by the 1949 Olivia de Havilland classic "The Heiress."



A single tear I shall not shed;
you warrant not my grief.
Though nightfall found my spirit numb,
the morning brought relief.

You dropped the world upon my heart
and crushed it 'neath the weight.
But when you gathered sense enough,
repentance came too late.

My soul does not still pine for you;
my being does not ache.
My conscience does not mourn for you.
Just wind blows in your wake.

No longer do I fall to you-
I, now, stand on my own.
I won't forsake my pride for you.
I'd rather be alone...

Post-Mortem

Mine own soul amongst these shadows;
silence, my lone friend.
Though my heart doth craveth sunlight,
darkness be the end.

Once Upon A Soul

A poem about child abuse.


A white lace dress-
tattered,
torn.

Saddle shoes so
faded,
worn.

A child's eyes-
how they
mourn

for love not met.
Know just
scorn.

Every curse they've
ever
said

weighs down her soul;
verbal
lead.

Innocent she's
born, then
bred.

Six years old with
no soul.
DEAD.

Free Will

A poem about choosing our own destinies.

(Author's note: My multiple-week hiatus was not exactly intentional. I have just been so busy with certain life dilemmas to find the time to sit down and compose a new poem; though I did come up with little stanzas here and there. But only this developed into a full-fledged piece of literary work.)


I man my own journey
on this, the path of life.
I, alone, shall navigate
these roads of joy and strife.

I shall walk these valleys
of shadow and of light
with just my heart as compass-
my guide through starless night.

I shall swim these seas
of pain, and lies, and hell,
and ride the waves of anger;
my soul against the swell.

I shall soar across these skies
of hope and endless promise
in my quest for higher truth
and a love that's pure and honest.

I am the captain of my destiny;
only I decide my calling.
It is I who dares to seize the chance,
and takes the risk of falling.

Forget Me Not...

My childhood best friend shall be marrying tomorrow, July 2nd, 2010. I will not be attending the wedding.


Alive in my soul
are all the words we spoke;
every lie we told,
and every heart we broke.

The memories dance
a waltz inside my head-
living as the sun glows,
though those years are long since dead.

I mourn the love we shared,
though you never seemed to grieve.
While you continued living
I continued to believe.

And I never let you go
in hopes that one fine day
you'd recall the gayest laughter
and your heart would surely sway.

But you put me from your mind,
and slept and dreamt so sound.
You shall don that white dress
whilst I'm nowhere to be found.

Miss Scarlett Finds Salvation

I was unable to post over the weekend because I was not home or near a computer. So I deeply apologize for having missed my deadline. The following poem is about my finally breaking free from the fear and control that have left me paralyzed for years.


The sun breaks up this endless night,
and wakes a soul still sleeping.
The birds sing as the day grows bright,
and silence all the weeping.

The sky is kissed with clouds of white;
hope permeates the air.
Her eyes burn as they meet the light;
the tears she does not spare.

Freedom grips her being
as salvation floods her veins.
She's stepped out from the shadows,
alas she bears no chains.

Forever Friends

"You're my only true friend. I love you."

I loved you, too.



Time does not stand still,
no matter strength of will.
And as the months and years do fade,
a love it surely kills.

These bonds were once so strong;
the road we traveled, long.
And though the memories shall last,
I can't speak for the song.

The sweet, poetic truth
accompanied by youth.
Though age shall lace our world with lies,
illusions still can soothe.

The image held so dear
of a loved one once so near
has shattered with the weight of time;
reality is clear.

In you I placed my trust,
but that faith has turned to dust.
I'm clothed in pain and drenched in shame
from my platonic, heartfelt lust.

My love had never wavered;
when it soured, you had flavored
it with thick, sweet honey,
that I slowly sipped and savored.

But your supply has now run out
and I, without a doubt,
can see just who you really are
thus dwindling your clout.

These chains by which you held me
have broken, and I'm free.
And though this shall surely hurt at first,
it's for the best. You'll see.

Melanie

A poem inspired by Melanie Wilkes (who dies after complications following a miscarriage), a character from my favorite film, "Gone With the Wind."

Uninteresting tidbit: I look exactly as Melanie is written to appear in the novel. LOL. I have a great deal of pride in that... ;)


A face, once young and hopeful
now lined with morbid truth.
Her smile sweet but doubtful-
a far cry from her youth.

Gone are days of innocence
and carefree naivete.
For yesteryear's blind ignorance,
a price she'll have to pay.

The world she knew has tumbled down,
just ash beneath her feet.
The once-rich earth a deadened mound-
the remnants of defeat.

All that's left is faith and love;
she clings to these with vigor.
She kneels and prays to God above,
hoping fortune it shall trigger.

Her faith has never wavered
through sleet, and rain, and hail.
The happiness, she's savored,
though the memories grow stale.

Her life she gave in total vain,
in hopes of youth renewed.
Though fear runs through,
her soul is calm, her spirit is subdued.

Her final words, unselfish-
still guiding souls yet found.
Though her voice does gently quiver,
it is peaceful in it's sound.

Her last life's breath is met with tears
as loved ones say goodbye.
A woman who has lived so well,
unjustly now must die.

The moonless night comes to a close;
they lay her down to sleep.
The death of one last fragrant rose.
For her, the south shall weep.

A Walk One Summer Night

I have no explanation for this one...


I was walking in the midnight breeze;
the moon was hidden by the trees.
The air was thick with summer heat,
but grass was cool beneath my feet.
The crickets chirped their twilight song,
and bullfrogs ribbited along.
A wolf was howling toward the stars
that glittered and glistened from afar.
Lightning bugs danced through the sky;
I counted seven pass me by.
The smell of flowers filled my nose-
lilies, petunias, perhaps... a rose?
Complacent, relaxed, content was I
as each moment passed me by.
These summer walks I hold so dear;
'tis then my heart and mind are clear.

Blind, Deaf, and Mute

A poem about society, and the fear of reformation.

We shall speak no evil,
for the cost is much too high.
There are things we dare not say;
instead we spread a silent lie.

We shall hear no evil,
for we fear the hefty price.
To listen is to gamble-
we refuse to toss those dice.

We shall see no evil,
for that purchase bears a tax.
To see is to acknowledge
so instead we turn our backs.

Though no one speaks, it's true.
And though we don't see, it's there.
While we are deaf, they're screaming;
the disease is everywhere.

It's time that we come forward,
for this moment calls for change.
Let's list the veil together;
and, as one, let's rearrange.

What Ever Happened to Scarlett Mae?

This one really needs no explanation. Screw siblings.


Sister, sister, oh so fair-
I wonder if you even care.
I clipped my wings so you could fly;
you batted not a single eye.

Instead you find it in your heart
to tear my every act apart.
It seems as I'm not good enough
for your thoughts, your words, but most your love.

Was I too crazy in my head?
Am I maybe better off as dead?
Or was my tongue to filled with acid
for you to taste the honey?

You value nothing that I do-
the sacrifices made for you.
And when the tables surely turn,
a lesson you will fin'ly learn.

But til that time I'll keep the peace,
knowing that your reign shall cease.
No longer shall you govern me;
no mater what, I'll soon be free.

Waiting

I was supposed to post Friday, but was not home. I could have posted yesterday, but was too busy working and cleaning. So I shall post today, though I am unprepared. I have nothing new, so I will make this a "Throwback Week." I am presenting you with a poem I wrote during my Freshman year in high school. It's Called "Waiting," and it's about Drs. House and Cuddy, from the FOX series "House." It's written from Cuddy's point of view.

I try to bend without breaking-
I'm trying not to shatter.
These smiles I am faking-
they never seem to matter.

And I reach just to touch your hand,
but you fade into the moonlight.
I'm waiting for tomorrow and
I'm waiting the sunlight.

Though you're numb
to who I've become,
I wait right here for you.
Oh, I'm waiting...

Scarlett

A poem I wrote about following your heart. I chose the title "Scarlett" because that's the name I want to change my own to. So the poem is basically about me. It's quite short, and a work in progress. I still have pretty epic writer's block. Just bear with me, y'all.


So many paths from which to choose-
so many destinies.
Should she follow what's within her heart
or those she longs to please?

So many paths to take or leave-
a road of twists and turns.
A tangled web she's sure to weave
if she should strive for what she yearns.

Brand New Eyes

I have found it quite troublesome, the task of writing a poem for my soon-to-be-blind friend. So what I have brought you is my best effort. My friend said that this burden has prompted her to rediscover her faith in God and start attending church again. This poem is about how losing her vision has renewed her spirit in a way. It's called "Brand New Eyes."


Look your eyes to the Heavens,
and open your heart to His love.
Anything is possible
when it's left our Lord above.

Spread out your palms, receive Him,
and He shall smile 'pon your face.
Do not deny, believe Him
and you shall relish in His grace.

Your soul may be wary,
but shed not a single tear.
For He is here to carry
you in times of loss and fear.

So worry not of what's to come,
for He will catch you should you fall,
Fear not the lonely nights,
for he will find you when you call.

This newfound faith runs through you,
and replinishes your soul
before damnation may undo you
and consume your spirit whole.

And though colors may be fading
into shadows, into light;
His love has prompted you to see
this world through brand new eyes.

The Strongest Woman I Know

I would like to dedicate this week's post to a very important friend of mine. I will not give her name, for the sake of protecting her in case anyone who knows who she is comes across this. But this friend of mine makes me grateful for the things I have. She has gone through a turbulent childhood, sexual abuse, a failed marriage, heroin addiction, and now the Lord has placed another obstacle along her path- she is going blind. While most people who have gone through half of the troubles she has faced would sit solemnly, feeling sorry for themselves, she lives for the best in life. She doesn't let her scars hold her back; she is a loving person, and she is always willing to help a friend in need. She has embraced the roadblocks she has faced, and in the wake of losing her vision she has learned to see the world with brand new eyes. Obviously that is a figure of speech. Knowing this woman has taught me to not feel sorry for myself. She is proof that, although I have faced considerable challenges in my few years, my life could be so much worse. I am grateful to call her my friend, and for the lessons she has taught me. She truly is the strongest woman I know. Unfortunately I don't have a poem prepared tonight and on top of that I'm really sick and extremely busy trying to clean. I will hopefully have something prepared by tomorrow night when I get off work.

Appreciate the things with which you are blessed; you never know when your life will change for good.

Please keep my friend in your prayers, for their is still hope that she can regain her vision with time and the proper medical care.

Curtain Call

I do not feel.
My mind is racing.
My heart beats like a drum.
I search my soul,
I part my lips;
But forth do no words come.
My spirit blank,
my being crushed,
I've lost all will to live.
I have no strength,
no point in life...
What have I to give?
A million ways
to end the show,
one dramatic final scene.
I cannot choose,
I can't decide,
the one befitting me.
To bleed would be
too gruesome-
'Twould stain my porcelain skin.
A thund'rous boom,
a bullet wound,
belies the quiet war within.
But to close the act
with too much
of a gratifying thing,
to bid the world
adieu as such
is a feat of which to sing.
With grace, yet without
dignity,
the curtains finally close.
And I shall lie
forevermore
in beautiful repose.

Freeze Frame

I feel really bad about not posting last night. But I was slammed with slave labor, and out-of-sorts as it was. To top it off, I must give all credit to a serious case of writer's block for the briefness of this week's piece. Brief as in four lines. But here it is:

Not by weakness,
but by will,
I gave you my heart
and time stood still.

Apocalypse

I wrote this for someone in whom I put much faith. My ignorance caused me to be blind to their flaws. But now that Ihave come to see them for who they are, I am overwhelmed with dissapointment. The literal definition of the word "apocalypse" is "the lifting of the veil." So that explains the title. Personally, I hate this poem. I wrote it on the fly and it's all I have for this week. Sorry.

Such the babe, I bought the lie-
ill-constructed alibi.
Angelic face built to belie
the empty crevace deep inside.

Young, naive, I trusted you.
A guiding light, you saw me through
my darkest hours 'neath the moon,
to dawning sun and skies so blue.

But now the clouds are turning gray,
your angel wings begin to fade;
pernicious every word you say.
An entity no longer staid.

My mind is blank, my heart is numb;
for you, I've ceased to feel.
The time to lift the veil has come.
The truth shall be revealed.

Billie

I wrote this poem for Joan Crawford. She's one of my favorite actresses, and definitely my girl crush. She was far more beautiful than people give her credit for nowadays. Not to mention a hell of a lot more talented than most entertainers these days (she could REALLY sing, dance, and act; nothing about her was mediocre). So, this weeks poem, entitled "Billie," is written just for that true star and legend.

Her eyes were blue and shining,
her skin was white as snow.
Her smile warmed the spirit,
and her voice would smoothly flow.

The outside, made of porcelain;
her core was made of stone.
She was headstrong and undaunted
in the face of the unknown.

Like the rose, a treasured beauty,
and abundant were her thorns.
But imperfections scatter
‘neath the footstall she adorns.

We regard her as a Goddess-
a deity of the arts.
She’s the empress of extravagance;
the queen of broken hearts.

But if we lift the golden veil
we’ll see what lies behind the glamour:
a child, sweet and impish,
with the power to enamor.

As Joan, Miss Crawford, Mommie Dearest,
alas, we knew her well.
But Billie wields the charming wand-
‘tis she who casts the spell.

The Second Chance

This poem was inspired by an old friend of mine. When we were in high school she told me a harrowing tale of one of her suicide attempts. Whether or not everything she said was truthful does not matter to me. It was great inspiration, and I have immortalized her story in a poem. The story goes as follows: She was extremely depressed, so she tried to drown herself in her bathtub one night. As she was inching closer to her goal, she recalls seeing nothing but white. Then an angel came to her and told her that it was not her time to go- she had a reason for being on this planet. As far as I know that was the last of her suicide attempts. So, here is what her story inspired: "The Second Chance."


Words are not enough to heal the scars upon my heart.
I tried to mend my broken soul, but still it fell apart.
Hope's a distant memory, there's emptiness ahead.
Faith in love has turned to ash and innocence is dead.

My solace is the butcher's knife I stashed inside my drawer.
Let the water overflow and lock the abthroom door.
Sink into the sacred bath to rid myself of sin.
Three simple steps to cleanse my soul, let retribution in.

Fear is screaming in my brain; my heart is filled with dread.
I know it's very simple- one, two, three and I'll be dead.
Still I hesitate with thoughts of what may happen in the end.
But this hunger that I feel for blood is strong and I give in.

The deed is sone, I think I've won. But what is this I see?
Breaking through the foggy white an angel beckons me.
Her touch is sweet November, and her voice a melody-
"Your time here isn't over," and with that she sets me free.

I wake up from this trance as though I've never lived before,
and right before my very eyes I see an open door.
I step beyond the threshold and I see a smiling face.
The world is bright and, in my heart, I know what's taken place.

My fragile soul was lifted- not to Heaven, but to peace.
With my spirit's newfound joy, this haunting anguish found release.
The dawning sun shines light on all the reasons I've to live.
My journey's far from over- I have so much left to give.

The (Wo)Man in the Iron Mask

I now have a regular blog, on which I hope to post more frequently. I will still be posting my weekly poem here, but I will do my whining and crying on this new one.

Happy reading!

myapologiestothesane.blogspot.com

Chambermaid

I had to make something up really quick in order to meet my weekly deadline. This piece is horrible (I made it up just now; it took me all of 10 minutes), and I will be taking it down and replacing it with something better later. Though I'm actually considering keeping it posted on here and just posting something else as an extra to make up for the lack of skill and poetic beauty in this one. As the title would suggest, it's called "Chambermaid," and it was inspired by the character of Alais (pronounced like "Alice" for those of you who don't know) from the Katharine Hepburn (one of my favorite actresses) classic "The Lion in Winter." It's an excellent, sordid, dryly witty film. I adore it, and highly recommend it to anyone 16 or older. Anyone much younger may not fully understand the film's humor. Anyways, to thee I regrettably present "Chambermaid."

I live to serve thee, master;
I'm on my hands and knees.
Your chambermaid- a love slave
to do with what you please.

I was born to love thee, sire;
my heart doth beat for you.
My tea cup runneth over
with lust that courses through

my veins, my soul, my being.
I'm nothing without you.
You give me shallow purpose,
and a senseless point of view.

I am your chambermaid.
Your wish is my command.
I live to grant each carnal wish.
To the boudoir, take my hand.

Angel

This is a poem inspired by both Judy Garland and my high school guidance counselor, Kerri Anne Mantz. It's kinda sentimental. Hope you enjoy it.


Escape to solitude and lock the door behind me.
Draw back a velvet curtain to the moonless sky above me.
Pitch black night flows through my veins; I'm empty.
I give myself to darkness, and the midnight is within me.

Time slips through my hands and I smile as my eyes close.
I wake to sunlight shining through the cracks in dirty windows.
Unprepared for God to save a soul that once was hollow,
an angel beckons me and so her guiding hand I follow.

I was trapped in endless dusk until her light gave birth to dawn.
I was broken, lost, and faithless; then I heard her healing song.
When a part of me was giving up, she gave me strength to carry on.
She shined a light upon the truth, illuminating all the wrong.

Let No Man Write My Epitaph

A poem I wrote about being bullied. Those people think they know you, so they make fun of what's on the outside, and judge you. But they have no idea who you really are within. Not the most well-written piece, but I still like it.


You couldn't bear what I have seen,
but still you claim to know my pain.
My words, you twist and tumble
'til your truth I do ordain.

You know not if I have sinned,
and yet you place my on a cross.
'Tis here I shall repent,
for now your grievance is my loss.

My tears, to thee, are sweet-
like an early springtime song.
The taste of my defeat
shall remain with you for long.

So I shall hang my head,
give you that for which you've asked.
Joyful hope is dead-
my truths seem now unmasked.

At my sentiment you laugh,
and it shall be forevermore just this.
Let no man write my epitaph
'til one soul do me justice.

Manic-Depression/Gravity

Since my first poem for this post is quite short, I decided to post TWO short poems. One dark, one slightly humorous. The first is "Manic-Depression," a poem I wrote about being Bipolar (thank you, Capt. Obvious). The second is "Gravity." This one I wrote about the fact that I always seem to slip when I wear high heels in my college. Nowhere else do I fall or stumble in these shoes- only at school.

"Manic-Depression"

I bandage all these cuts with lies
as the phoenix in my mind doth rise.
Before I fall down,
upon me they'll frown
when they notice the spark in my eyes.


"Gravity"

I'm a constant victim
to gravity's action,
cuz like a seasoned prostitute
high heels have no traction.

Gisele

I am currently breaking my "one post-per-week" rule to bring you the latest in my poetic excursions. The poem is for Gisele Galante Broida, the woman with whom I am currently enthralled. The 54-year-old Frenchwoman bears a striking resemblance to her mother, screen legend Olivia de Havilland (my IDOL, if you haven't read my past posts), and for some reason I find myself drawn to her. Not in a romantic way (not exactly, anyway), but in that maternal sort of attachment way. As happens to me a lot with older women I find interesting. I wrote the poem with the intent of sounding like a lesbian stalker. It just sounded fun. The poem is still in the working stages, so this is just a preview of what may become a decent piece of literature. So, here for your eyes, is my newest poem, aptly titled "Gisele."


I've watched you from a distance,
looking through the mask you wear.
I've looked beyond your smile,
seeing every scar you bear.

I've heard your heart beat faster
as you try to catch your breath.
Sweet time is rushing past you,
so you'll sleep upon your death.

Illusions smash to pieces
like a glass house kissed by rock.
Innocence is mythical;
sweet romance left the dock.

The pawn has hit the conflict,
like a wall of brick or stone.
So wide the world we venture;
in the end we trek alone.

But I shall follow closely
as you navigate each street,
basking in your victories,
mourning each defeat.

My Gisele, of poise and grace,
of beauty fine and fair-
you're forever in my heart,
in every midnight prayer.

But you shall never see me
for I watch so far away.
I don't wish to disturb thee,
so distant I shall stay.

But still, I watch intently,
seeing all you try to hide.
Close behind your every step
as you walk the world so wide.

September Rain

The poem I wrote for Yvonne de Carlo on September 1, 2007. That would have been her 85th birthday. She died on January 8 of that same year. As a young child I developed a strange attachment to Yvonne. I had no stable maternal figure, but since no matter where I was I was always watching "Munsters" reruns, Yvonne became a substitute. She became a surrogate mother to me. I loved and respected her very much, and still have not gotten over her death. I have written several poems for her since her death. The first one being "Goodnight," which I wrote as soon as I heard about her death. "Dear Yvonne" was written during my first week of summer in 2007; "Salome- Where She Danced" was written a few weeks later. Then, I wrote both "Fall Into Darkness" and "Letting Go" in the same day. But the one I treasure most is this one. Partly because I wrote it on her birthday, and partly because I think it's the best out of all of them. So, enjoy.


Clouds of gray slow dance in the pale September sky-
a barricade of darkness that derails your angel light.
Dejected voices whisper words that echo through the night.
Faded red of moon's eclipse bears blood of years gone by.

Twinkle stars shine bright within the deep blue of your eyes.
The ocean trench runs deeper than regret of faithless lies.
Pretty smiles cover up the bruises that you hide.
There's just an empty wineglass left to catch the tears you've cried.


R.I.P



Yvonne de Carlo (September 1, 1922 - January 8, 2007)

Miss Charlotte

A poem about the film "Hush... Hush, Sweet Charlotte," starring Bette Davis and my idol, Olivia de Havilland.

Young Miss Charlotte Hollis was forsaken by her lover.
Most say 'twas she who killed him and her daddy was the cover,
for no one could deny the bloodstains found upon her dress.
Still, Charlotte swore her innocence- to crime she'd not confess.
But given what they knew, the town saw only one solution:
Charlotte was the culprit in her lover's execution.
And so, from that day forward townsfolk whispered and they talked,
laying down a quilt of eggshells on the ground where Charlotte walked.
And all she had to fill the gaping void within her heart
was a music box John gave her when their love was at its start.
It's sweet piano rhythm lulls her to a land of dreams
where hope hangs pungent in the air, and nothing's what it seems.
'Tis here that she can dance with him and feel his love's embrace;
and it's here that she speak with him, and touch his gentle face.
But morning's light shall bring her to the truth and day begins.
Once again upon a cross, repenting for another's sins.
But is it true atonement when there's nothing to atone for?
Should they throw these stones when there is nothing to throw stones for?
But how could she defend herself when she knew not the truth?
These lies consumed her innocence and stole away her youth.
Now in her crippled twilight years, she needs another's care.
For this she calls upon a long-lost kindred spirit fair.
How sweet her cousin Miriam had always seemed to be.
Yet one eve Miss Charlotte found out something unbeknownst to she.
Dear Miriam was not the sweet and lovely saint at all,
for many moons agi her kind demeanor took a fall.
Charlotte knew her secret now- she'd blackmailed Mrs. Mayhew.
She let them blame young Charlotte and great riches were her thank you.
Tell the truth or walk away from this was Charlotte's twisted plight.
Alas, she knew what she must do, and that it must be done this night.
She's spent er life in shadows, but tonight she'll grow new wings.
What a tangled web we weave; what solace retribution brings.

America's Queen

Written for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, inspired by her strength and poise after the death of John F. Kennedy.

It's a gaslight situation,
the downfall of a nation.
Gunshots bringing more than death to just one man.

The tears were in your eyes
but, for the world, you didn't cry.
The strongest of them all, you held his hand.

His final moments dragging on,
you told yourself you must be strong,
and you hoped that Caroline would understand.

Your only other bother?
Little John would have no father.
There'd be no one there to make that boy a man.

Cameras flashed like lightning
catching images so frightening
that, to this day, they still affect our land.

But it was bloodstains on your dress
that told the world he was at rest.
Then there was grief that, for this country, you'd withstand.

You never told the story
that is Oswald's crowning glory-
you took the past and buried it in sand.

It was your grace that kept our nation
from collapsing in Damnation
and, to you, we give an everlasting hand.

For even in your death you're seen
as the past, the present, and future Queen
of a nation that, because of you, still stands.

And written on your epitaph
is "In darkness she had made us laugh."
For, when no one else could, we said "Jackie can."

Suddenly, Last Summer

Inspired by the Tennessee Williams play of the same name. (This one is longer, making up for the briefness of last week's piece.)


She screamed-
she screamed so loud the earth shook.
But no one heard her;
not one solitary look

toward her pained, contorted face.
They're consumed in their kill.
Her heart an empty space
as she watches, and her cries fill

the humid summer sky.
No one will believe her
when she tries to tell them why
the young man had to leave her.

So she locked it up inside
and now she can't remember.
Her spirit's well has dried,
her soul's become December

morning frost.
No one understands her.
The memories she's lost
hold the painful, bloody answer

to the questions they have asked.
But she contests to tell them
the truth, which she has masked
with the lies that she will tell them

in her desperate attempt
to bury what she's seen.
Her contrived, yet plain, contempt
labeled only as obscene.

She's cornered now-
sedated, forced to speak
of what she found
atop that mountain peak.

They devoured him.
Or, to her it seemed that way.
They took her sound mind with them
when they sucked his soul away.

The world they knew had ended
to the beat of one lone drummer.
Her insanity, distended
suddenly. So suddenly, yes... Suddenly, last summer.

Come Early Morning

Disclaimer: Contrary to your first thoughts once you read this, it is NOT about sex. I repeat, NOT ABOUT SEX!!!


I await the sacred hours daylight falls behind the trees-
a momentary chance to sing in perfect harmony.
I smile to myself, for I'll see you breathing soon,
and we'll dance our twilight waltz beneath the ever-watchful moon.

My heart is growing heavy as each moment passes by-
another second closer to the early morning sky.
The instant when the sunlight tears our fragile souls apart,
and leaves us once again to heal our wounded, bleeding hearts.

The Tamer and the Shrew

A poem about an old friend, and our unhealthy relationship.


How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways:
I hate your moonless, pitch-black nights
and your cloudy, rain-filled days.
The sun is up, the sun is down;
we never seem to once agree.
In a circle, round and round,
on a carousel are we.
You starve me like the raven
and you beat me like the slave.
I'm forced to sit and listen
as you ramble on and rave.
You have deemed me so unworthy
of the slightest vague attentions,
making nothing of my efforts-
all my greatest of intentions.
You have forced me to my knees
in a customary bow
but I'm determined to break free,
and that's my solitary vow.
You say I am unruly
but, dear, many disagree;
they see me for my softer side-
the lonely girl in me.
You've cracked your whip to break me,
make me something you could love.
You contrived for me concealing masks,
like hands within a glove.
But I'll not be distorted,
for I'm not your molding clay.
I won't again be garnished,
for I'm no one's art display.
In this game, you stand as "Tamer"
and, I, the unloved shrew.
But I won't change my wicked ways
to be good enough for you.

A Lighthouse On the Harbor

For Olivia de Havilland, who has inspired me to never conform to anyone's standards. She is a prime example of what it means to stand by your convictions, and bow down to no one.


I went searching for a lighthouse
that could guide me to the shore.
There once had been a glimmer
but, alas, it was no more.

The sky was dark and moonless
with not a star in sight,
the wind was whipping harshly,
and the cold began to bite.

The waves were crashing loudly,
and the tide began to rise.
The undertow had pulled me
farther from the midnight skies.

I was drowning in my sorrows,
pulled under by despair.
I felt my body thrashing
but I could not meet the air.

I felt the end draw nearer
as each moment passed me by.
With no hope for sweet salvation,
I heaved one final sigh.

I let myself sink lower,
'til my feet did touch the floor.
I could feel the sand beneath me
as my soul shook to the core.

But something jerked me forward,
and I was raked across the tide
until my body broke the surface
and my hands did touch the sky.

I looked on the horizon,
and to my utmost glee,
I saw a lighthouse shining,
and an angel beckoned me.

I swam with vim and vigor,
eager to meet land,
and my heart swelled with great rapture
when my fingers touched the sand.

I stood up and I smiled
when the angel touched my face.
I was grateful for this second chance;
moreso for her grace.

I'd an angel's light to guide me
from a sea of wrath and fear
to a shore where hope runs rampant,
and reflections stare back clear.

I once was so transfixed
by all the reasons I stood out
that I never learned to love myself,
and was overcome with doubt.

I began to slowly purge myself
of gluttony and sin
until all the mirror showed me
was brittle bones and skin.

No soul behind my eyes,
and no heart within my chest,
I became a perfect robot,
but I was sicker than the rest.

For in my journey to conform,
I drifted out to sea.
My secret almost drowned me
and I nearly ceased to be.

But then an angel called me
and led me to a mirror
where, for the first time, I did see myself,
and the truth became much clearer.

I hated what I saw,
for that girl was not alive-
she had purged into oblivion,
her beauty was contrived.

Olivia, the angel,
had that for which I longed:
a beauty that came freely,
not by doing oneself wrong.

And so, her hand in mine,
I walked a winding road
towards health and love and freedom-
things Bulimia forbode.

The journey made was long,
and I took many a wrong turn,
but I made the greatest effort,
and I've so much left to learn.

For I'll never be so free
as to say I do not suffer,
but I'll stay so far away
as to say things could be tougher.

And I'll always have my angel,
with her halo and her wings,
to steer me down this narrow path
amd remind me of these things.

My angel is Olivia;
she's the reason I'm alive,
with her smile sweet as candy,
and beauty one could not contrive.

She saved from myself
in the very bleakest minute.
She showed me what I could be,
all my heart, and what's within it.

And you still hear it beating,
for I overcame great strife
with the help of sweet Olivia,
for she gave the gift of life.

Silent Is the Night

I wrote this poem about the toll attachment issues take on one's psyche and personal relationships. It comes from a personal place- the fear that because someone didn't answer when you called, or didn't reply to your text, they just don't care about you. It's about that constant fear of the slightest rejection.


I spent so long throwing stones at your window
that I never knocked on the door.
I'm forever haunted by silence not broke;
there came your sweet voice nevermore.

'Twas wrong to believe, still, 'twas wrong to deceive,
so it was falsely I adored.
I should have gave in but, instead, was drawn in
further each time I was ignored.

I was so mesmerized by twinkle star eyes
and a smile bright and sunny
that the strong medicine most would grow to despise
tasted much sweeter than honey.

As I spoke to the air, I stood with a stare
blank as freshly fell snow.
It just isn't fair that, although you don't care,
I cannot let this go.

It's so hard to refrain from loving in vain
when it's all you have anymore.
To trust, so afraid, but, intrigued, I had stayed,
and, thus, was shaken to the core.

A love that could heal holds a world of appeal;
so much that it matters the most.
And sometimes I feel like, to you, I'm not real-
nothing more than the feint of a ghost.

The years I spent throwing stones at your window
wouldn't change had I chose the door.
I called and I called; just silence would follow.
There came your sweet voice... Nevermore...