Also written in middles school.


Rain cascades from the broken window
as tears fall from my eyes
kisses from the leopards widow
salty tears from thine eyes

cries from within
with no one to call
the flies from within
do not escape the leopards paws

And then the dreams get brighter
and you have no where to run
when the dreams get louder
you melt into the sun

hot as the sunset yet cold to the touch
the desert air is far too much
drying all your tears and freezing the sky
the sun rises and sets
as your heart does fly

into the air
leave the earth behind
forget your cares
even as the sun ceases to shine

And when you newly fallen tears cease to shine
I will be there
forever yours. . .
forever mine. . .

I believe it's about sadness and losing someone close to you but in the end finding that they were always there, you just didn't know they were. Or maybe it signifies something else. It just flowed from my mind like an unknown stream. .

I wrote this like ages ago. Like in middle school.



Blood runs from my pores
Streams from my veins
And flows down my arms
Creating lurid candy canes

Torrid screams of youth
Of battered childhoods
Of sadness, anger, desperation

Of dead bodies and teary faces
Of blackthorns and torn laces
Of pricked fingers and lingering cries
From those who have been Polkerized*

And when the sadness overwhelms me
When I feel as if about to break
I see your face before me. . .

Promising sweet release
I feel you hold me in your arms
And softly stroke my tender cheeks
Brush tears from my crying eyes

But alas you have disappeared
No more than a shadow in my mind
Your promises are empty
Your arms hold nothing
You don't exist
You are nothing but a figment in my mind

I feel wistfulness pour down my soul
If only you were real

But I'm pulled back into the shadows again
My soul tearing from my body in these dreams. . .
These blood dreams. . .


*In Stephen King's Novel, The Stand, a couple of guys went on a murdering spree which Poke(one of the killers) called murder Polkerizing.

Nov or Dec MMVI
~

Hair once an olive gold, I found him wild in the forests. He didn't
notice me, he was hunched over, peering at a violet flower, dying. His
eyes, once so blue were now a pale gray. He was a husk of what he'd
been.

I watched him that day, hiding amongst the whispering of bushleaves,
ducking behind the barren trees with the rough rough bark that
scratched and calloused my hands. I watched as the wind whipped at his
body, hurling snow at his bare flesh, his skin just as pale. I
listened to the wind hissing harsh curses as the elements of its fury
burned and melted in my hair. I listened to the sound of our feet push
against the thick snow, crunching.

He moved slowly, sluggishly, a wounded best. I felt as if at any
moment the wind would win and he would drop. We left what felt like a
mile of
footprints in the snow before he whipped around to face me.

I stopped. No breath entered or left my lungs. No movement from my
limbs. And all the world was drowned out but him.

His face: alabaster cheeks. His lips: so bloodless earlier, now
blooming full, a rose. His body: taut, trembling with energy, a
violin's string, vibrating. But his eyes--- flashing, glowing,
glaring, a caged tiger's.

Slowly, I took a step forwards, hesitatingly reaching out to him with
hands palm up, beseeching. . .

But he flew away.

I followed his retreating form until he was nothing but a black speck
in the sky and the nothing. Hanging my head, I noticed a long black
feather liquefying the snow. It was glossy soft sweet warmth against
my cheek. I looked up again to where he'd done but there was only a
gray sky the color of his eyes.


It wasn't long till I say him again. But by then the blankness of the
snow had driven me half mad and the cold an icy bite from the jaws of
death. Stumbling, gasping, hot tears freezing on my cheeks, I'd found
my way back to the forest. There I made a bed of dessicated leaves in
a hollow tree. When day died the only sound to keep me company was the
sobbing of a lone owl. And mornings were just as gray as night.
Sometimes I woke believing I stared into his eyes. I'd reach out to
stroke his soft cheek only to touch empty air. I cried each time.

I awoke the same way the day he found me. I was cold, I was starved, I
was hopeless. It wasn't as I dreamt. I didn't part my lashes to find
effulgent blue eyes and to feel his warm arms keeping the frost at
back. Instead, I was found laying in the white, trying to numb myself
to the red. dimly, I heard feet come from afar. They stopped at my
head, melting the snow around me. Slowly I opened my eyes to see a
pale winged figure. Only his wings moved, restlessly. Then he bent
down and pulled me from the ice death, his arms the jaws of life. His
hands were so hot they burned my numbed skin. It blistered. Gasping, I
looked up and bore my eyes into his. He stiffened. Then he blinked and
looked away.

He carried me away from the snow to someplace warmer, more alive. I
couldn't tear my eyes from his face. He: my hopes, my dreams, my fears
was now so removed from me. He was all I had ever wanted. And he was
not mine.

He coughed. I blinked, refocusing my eyes. His jaw was set and the
skin under his eyed was a truer plum than I'd ever seen. He stopped at
an oak, holding me on his lap. As he pulled my frozen body closer to
him, wrapping beautiful ebon wings around me, I heard the tattoo of
his heart. It was the first time I heard it so fierce. I met his eyes
again and he looked away quickly.

"Sleep," he said and I did.

I opened my eyes to the feeling of warmth, the cracking of sticks and
the smell of him. He had put a blanket over me in the night. It was
glossy soft sweet warmth against my cheeks.

I bolted from my resting place to behold him crouching around a fire.
His wings, so magnificent earlier, now had fewer feathers than the day
before. My cheeks alternately burned and froze as I walked toward him.
He watched carefully, noting the way I grasped the blanket. I reached
out to touch him. He flinched from my reach, saying in a strained
voice, "Don't don't," or maybe, "No no." I stopped, staring at him,
then at the blanket. The inky plumes were haphazardly enlaced by olive
brown hair. His, of course. The feathers danced beneath my vision
until I dropped the blanket, crumpled to ground and sobbed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You should go."

I said nothing. And then, when my tears stopped he said, "I'll take
you back now."

Softly, I said, "You don't get it. I love you."

"No. You don't."

Then, voice hardening, I said, " Yes, I do. I do love you. Why do you
think I'm here?"

He glanced away from me. "I'm sorry. I'm bad for you."

"You don't get it. I love you! I love you, I love you!"

"Stop! Stop! Just stop!"

I stopped. We were silent, my heart continually exploding in its cage
and anger lacing my veins.

Softly, I said, "Come with me. Let me love you."

"I. Cant," he said from between his teeth.

"Why. Not?"

"Because I am bad for you."

"You are *not* bad for me! This is what's bad for me! This is what's
killing us! You being away from me."

I pulled myself from the ice death, too hot for the cold, and moved
towards him. He flinched when I touched him but I grabbed ahold of his
shoulders anyway and looked him directly in the eyes. "Look at me. How
can you say this is wrong?" When he started to cry, I kissed him,
gingerly. His lips were soft sweet petals receptive to my lips. "I
love you," I said.

"I love you so much."

"I know," I whispered and kissed him again. Then again on his neck and
his shoulders. Then again on his chest. I covered his whole body in
them. We made love. Gently, tenderly. Til the snow retreated from our
bodies. His lips told me again and again how much he loved me. His
fingers and heart followed suit. And his eyes were no longer the color
of an elder's hair. They were bright and electric, sweet and gentle as
they used to be.

He held me close the night through, keeping our bodies as one fire,
our hearts on the same beat, fanning the flames. The sound, so soft
and steady, sang us to sleep.

The next morning he took me in his arms again and we flew back
together, leaving the cold behind.

Feb 25th MMV
~

Strange the way the drive to Weston is so magical. One of my favorite times in my life. Ironic, eh? I open the door, sit down. Daddy says there are CDs in the glove compartment, the doors, the arm rests, in the back. You can listen to whatever you like. We've gone through this a million times. I've been going up to Weston for the past three years. Every time it's the same.

There's something about the drive up that makes the music sound so much better. A neverending highway to heaven. The music blasts, wind roaring in my hair, tangling it into snarls I'll have to come out later, spreading a thin layer of ice over my bones like jam on toast. Icy wind that burns my should and send fire leaping into my eyes until they glitter as gold. But there is something more magical than this truck metamorphosizing into an ebon charger with its burning city lights for eyes.

It's in the way the music I pick for the ride up is just right. Always perfect. Matching my mod and his, our souls woven into the music despite not having been in touch for days. Days that seemingly evolve into eons in his minds eyes. A parent's love for his child. Can I fault him?

I can't help but love him.

Dunno when I wrote this. Accidentally forgot to get the date.]

....A picture of you,
unexpected, sends a stab
of pain through my heart....