Death of Me

This is the last cigarette
I will hold in my hand, between my first two fingers.
Listen to the sound of the lighter. Click!
Light me up, baby. You know you want it.

I take the first long drag from the cigarette
and inhale the smoke into my lungs.
I slowly expel the poison.
I watch as the gray clouds of smoke float toward the atmosphere.

I feel my body begin to demonstrate the ritual effects
reacting to this cigarette just like the one before this and the one before that.
I love the sensation.
 I have to be brutally honest.
I will not give them up.
I want to shoot it through my veins. I want to smoke it through my hole.
I don't ever want to stop smoking this last cigarette.

The trouble with cigarettes, nothing lasts forever.
I don't want to predict how I will die.
I don't need to look into the crystal ball to see
the lines written on my face.
I am out of control.
Addicted to the little white lies.

I am a junkie. I want my cigarettes.
I am a whore, I will sale myself for one more.
Pack me a box of Camel lights.
I am going to smoke and feel.
Tomorrow, I will deal with the death of me.
*****************************************
(This isn't finished and I did not proofread.)
I just have to put it out there because I am struggling again.
I made it through another day without smoking.
I wrote this  piece of shit a few months ago.
I fell off the wagon so many times now.
I don't want to talk about my love/hate relationship with cigarettes.
Day five, just Do It!

Bird Sing Me a Song of Sorrow

I am walking on a quiet wooded road close to my apartment.
I am listening to Ryan Adams, "Touch Feel, Lose."
I am in the zone on the road, listening to the rhythm of the song.
Then it hits me.
I realize I like you.
I didn't know it until that moment.
I knew I had fun when we spent time together.
You took me to the special Portland places.
Filling my days wonder.
Standing on that back road to my home.
I could picture your face so completely
that it's
as if you were standing in front of me.
I could feel the door opening to a palpable existence.
I closed my eyes and willed this love to literally come to pass.
I walked home, to wait.

Jimmy Hoffa's Hill

It's cold in the garage
I light my cigarette.
The gray smoke billows
in ribbon tendrils around my head.
I turn my mind to poetry.
I force the anxiety to retreat.
I have to create.

I am procrastinating.
I have a writing assignment due.
So far, I have my books
spread out on the cold concrete floor.

My roommate's, children
Levi and Bella
are laying on one foot each.
Warming me as they contently sleep.

This moment is perfect.
The words will come naturally.
I can feel them bubbling up
from the wellspring.
I will not allow fear
or self-doubt to enter
the sacred space.
I believe in this moment.
I know the poems.
More importantly, I understand them.
I can string words together
and those strings carry gold.
I will get an A.
I laugh and take a drag.
I am ready to begin.
Tonight, I will write like I am in the zone.

Putting the worries of the day
on the back burner
to simmer
To wait.

I will pray.
I will meditate.
I will focus.
I don't want to force the words.

The writing has to feel pure.
If I force my thoughts
to hurry along
To come out
To play.
Then my paper will suffer.

I have learned the secrets
to creating
an insightful masterpiece.
I just have to trust my process.

To learn
to write
without the need
for approval.

This life of writing is an obsession.
I see the words in my mind.
I feel a words underlying meaning.
They come to me with purpose.
They show me a pattern.
They scream to be set free.
This is the gift from
my strange processing brain.
A relationship with poetry.

I live with sensory processing disorder.
It is not enjoyable
but who would I be without it.
I was the kid that was different.
I grew into an adult with strange quirks.
I learned to adapt
to the way I process information
and in return, I have writing.

I see the world through the eyes
of a seeker.
I search for inspiration
in each assignment, at work,
I search the ground for treasure.
I follow the voice of my true self
She tells me to be curious.
The wellspring with guide me
I  will create something
thoughtful and unique.

Just to get critiqued.
That happens when you are young.
You are filled with uncertainty.
Even as you trust in your talent
You remember getting knocked down.
Your spirit is not yet strong enough
to believe in the person you will become.

In this house
with the Jimmy Hoffa hill.
I am blessed.
I have time
to  finish this one assignment.
There are years of college in front of me.
Plenty of time thicken my skin
to the sting of literary rejection
It can be brutal.
It can spiral me out into the void.
Where there are no words for support.
I am familiar with this feeling, as well.
I will put myself back together.
The light of my soul shines
Even when I think my light is gone forever.
It is there guiding me.
Taking me by the hand.
Leading me home.

I think about my roommates
Pletch and Patrick
they will soon be home.
My family by choice
They inspire me to continue
By making art and
filling our home
with beauty.

The paper is finished.
I am happy with the results.
A writing assignment successfully finish.

I am still in the zone.
I will write for myself.
I will not give up.
The words are just waiting
to be written.

Little Wars

 Prior to my flight to meet death,
I was choking on my anger.
It did not come out of nowhere, our fight.
We had been circling each other like caged tigresses for weeks.

I chose that moment to let go of this little war.
I retreated to the safety of my den
to lick my wounds in solitude.

Life had changed, I just lost my Grandpa.
Our future break-up no longer mattered.
This grief would not be connected.
I was ready to be free of you.

FLF

Sometimes inspiration does not come from music or the written word.
It can come from a comment of a friend.
This friend who makes you snort with laughter.
This friend he is different.
He spans the time.
I wasn't expecting to ever find another friend like family.
But here you are.

You better not fuck me over because I have been there before.
I chose to believe this time we will always have each other's back.
I am loyal and I care.
You may have a heavy load but my shoulders can take the weight of air.
They can certainly take some of your despair.

Trying To Smile

I don't like this feeling.
I don't like feeling.
I don't like waiting.
I am so impatient.

I don't want you to know
That I think of you.

I don't want to know

that you already know I do.

I can hear your words whispered in my ear.
I can picture you, 

 working in the dust bowl days.

I picture the friends you have and the time invested.

I picture that heart of your's how it craves for more.
I don't want you to know that's . 

I want to feel the pulsing heartbeat 

Even when I am living the day trying not to think.

I will feel the crash the waves.

my mind recalls you and
my body has a physical reaction.
I tingle and blush.
 My body will even shudder.
I am frustrated by these feelings.

I don't like the loss of control.

I don't know if you have what it takes

 to give me what I want.

I am looking for someone special.

That could be you.

I am not going to even believe.

That I still need trust and intimacy.

I need you to feel like you have won a prize.

I don't want to pry complements out of you

like you are a oyster.

I know there is a black pearl inside. 

Still....

I let you in and maybe I should not have.

I don't want to complicate things.

That feeling of passion will fade.

With stream of consciousness I look at the desire and the practical. 

In the end, I decide to let it go.

 I am not someone who will always be around.

I told you that I didn't like the feeling.

I cannot stand to share my personal struggle with individuals. 

I do it to feel the connection. 

Damn, the consequence. 

You gave what you could and it's over for good. 

I feel better having left you in the past.

Where you belong, a fragment of a memory.

Just once in awhile you will shine.

Then, I remember the desire.

This time I will not let you in. 

I am tired of trying to smile. 

Red-light Artist

A rhyming poem about heartache

This was written in 2001
I had the words in my mind and I had to write them down on paper.




A rhyming poem about heartache.

I don't want it to come down to
I'm breaking up with you.
That might possibly be.
So I will quit before you fire me.
Never again, will I hold on
to something that's gone on to long.

Wanderlust

When I listen to music it gives me the confidence to carry on.
We cannot change how other people see us. We don't even have to try.
 Some people drink water and others drink whiskey. I prefer Diet Coke. It's all relative.
You do not belong to anyone and no one belongs to you.
If you are someone who has heard "Some people just don't understand you."
Well, welcome to my world.
"Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly.
I am the fly and go up the winding stare.
I am coming down those stairs.
I am not going to apologize this time.
I don't give a damn if you don't want me.
You cannot hurt this woman.
That is what I am.
I am a woman.
I am not a child.

I gaze so long into the great aching sun.
I just wanted to belong.
I want to be at peace with the ambition that's connected to me like a thread.
In my memory before the rejection.
My mind tells me no, but I want more.
I will leave these people behind.
I will grieve for those who deserve my love.
I will bust out of this town.
No more judgement from those terrible voices.
I am not frightened.
There is peace in the harbor.

Love in Birmingham

We were standing in the milk isle.
I do not remember what you said.
I just remember how it felt.
I was blushing. I could feel my body become demure.
Is it in the mind or is my body just having a very female reaction to another person?
I don't know.
I just know, when I am with him.
I am a real woman. Not one of those other women who are not real. Those women don't exist.


No one can make me laugh like you.
You jokes are my favorite.
When I look up to your face.
I see those soulful eyes looking into mine.
Love is moments that are not even intended.

Sometimes, the rush of electricity shoots through my body.
I feel the desire beginning to rise.
It's when you say, you want to touch me.
I cannot believe that someone like you
I just cannot.
Then I feel so happy. There is something in the way, you love me.
After all of this time, you still surprise me.

Walking By My House

1

He never walks by my house, not anymore.

 Now, he drives.

 He tries not to go down the street and rarely he does.

 This one night, he drove by to many times to count. It was a hot summer night.

 I was in my bedroom alone listening to music and sitting on the floor dreaming out the window. There wasn't even a breeze on this quiet night.

 The music fit the moment perfectly, "Why are you driving by my house?"

You have been here, before. 

We were just to young for desire. 

He just drove and you sang.

We spoke this way, frequently

music said the words between us.

We are people who can see the world 

in the bright lights of the car lights

 coming fast in the night.

2

You think everything is about you.
 You think I am so caught up in my own life,
that I think you guys would be happy.
 You don't know a damn thing about me.
 You don't even give me the courtesy to turn down the music, when I hop in the car.
 How could we have ever lived together?
 What did I see in you?

  I still don't understand.
 You are spiteful 

flawed and imperfect but you deny 

that you are anything less then the 

better between us.

As if this were a competition.

I don't understand how your mind works.
You stare every minute of the day.

Waiting to pounce.

The high from the fight

Turns you on.

So bright

This proves you right.

 You pretend that it's all in my head.
You couldn't handle it even if you tried,

 my head.
I am at peace with my imperfections.

I got my backbone at the family store.

I cannot stand that you think that I am the pretender.
I know who I am, do you?
Can you even look in the mirror
Honestly, what do you see?

It's not an interest growing with me.