Once upon a midnight dreary
New Years Resolutions

I know this is a little late, as well as I know I have become very estranged with so many of my former friends on Tumblr, but I figured I would still post a few of my New Years Resolutions, to at least be able to return to and hold myself accountable for a few promises. I pledge:

  • To read one book a week. 
  • To finish my second Master’s degree in August (Only 3 classes left!).
  • To put on the most unforgettable 8th grade dance for my students. 
  • To complete my Reading Endorsement with my County. 
  • And when all of that is over, I want to begin planning my wedding with my best friends and my fiance. 
  • Personally, I would like to learn to be more patient, especially when I become overwhelmed. And I would like to learn how to leave my work at work and not take the stress of grading and planning home to consume my weekends. 

So far I’ve already read two books and am working on my third! I’m pretty excited to get back to teaching tomorrow (weird, I know!), but I’ve actually missed my kids; and it doesn’t hurt that I have the next 9 weeks of lessons completely planned out! Woo! 

I know I’m late, but does anyone care to share their resolutions/thoughts/goals/dreams?

Follow my new education blog if you haven’t already!
I swear, it’s going to be fun!
Let’s be friends and talk about teaching and activities!

Follow my new education blog if you haven’t already!


I swear, it’s going to be fun!

Let’s be friends and talk about teaching and activities!

I am a Writer

I am a writer at heart,

and it’s sometimes difficult to explain

exactly why this is the love of my life,

because it seems so natural to me,

as if, there is no other way for me to live.

Poetry, words, the art of pouring my

heart and soul onto these tattered pages

is the only way I can truly express the

thoughts and images dwelling in the

darkest corners of my mind.

I feel sometimes as if the blood running

through my veins has transformed

to ink, and if I were to cut,

the most beautiful black spotted words

would pour forth and break your heart.

I write because it is the only way I can

quite the tangle of words swirling

in my mind, and to show you the side

of me that you haven’t bothered to see.

I write because I love the power of words

and the way they can change the world,

I write for you, and I write for me,

and somehow I can’t explain it further,

I write because that is all I wish to be,

a passionate, eccentric lover, wielding my

sword of words for all to read.

I am a writer, take me or leave me.

The Beauty of Suffering

Isn’t there a sense of beauty

in all of this pain, this heartache?

A knowledge, an awareness,

something just so blatantly obvious

that you have never thought of before

and it hits you right between the eyes,

as if it has been there all along,

you were just too blind to see.

But you weren’t blind, you just

couldn’t imagine there could be

pain this strong, this rising, swelling

tension deep within your chest,

you can feel it grinding your bones

to dust, and sucking every last

ounce of air from your cracked lips.

You never fathomed, not even in

the darkest corners of your nightmares

that this feeling could be real,

but it is.

And when you’re overwrought

with these constant reminders of the

pain, those old photographs, the

letters written, the passion and whipsers

trapped within the walls, it feels as if

you will never escape this shade of grey.

That perhaps this is what life has come to,

just a pertpetual state of sadness

that you will never escape.

But you manage to get out, and realize

the pain has changed you, transformed

a fragile heart into a stronger, more beautiful

person, someone you cant recognize.

And you think, that you could have never

become this strong, this passionate

without the pain, it has made you stronger.

And you see the beauty in suffering,

that without the lowest points of depression,

the darkness creating a home for itself in the

rotted void in your chest, you would never have

this appreciation of life and love.

So bring on the pain, bring on the heartache,

I’m ready for you.

The Way of Words

I wish I could create such words
that would connect our hearts,
our souls, our minds,
isn’t that what words do?
They wrap these invisible strings
to our hearts, attaching themselves,
winding, twisting, binding us
with their power and strength,
it’s the only way we understand the
screaming chaos in our minds,
if we can sort through the screams together.

But sadly, those words, those beautiful
letters that bring our bodies and wonderfully
strange minds together, have escaped me.
Trust me, I have spent nights searching
the deepest corners of my mind to
find those hidden words, the ones
that fit so perfectly together to confess
my heart’s most colorful dreams.
The words seem lost in the breeze,
those words that brought you to me.

And now I struggle to fill these pages
with any words that come to mind, not the
strategic lines I once devoted my life to
creating, no, it’s almost as if they have
dissipated and became the some that
escapes my dry, cracked lips.

But somehow it was you all along,
the one who brought color and words
into my heart, causing them to pour out
of me so beautifully, and when you left
it’s as if you took all the words with you.

I’m Back

The silence has come to an end,
the letters I have been searching for
visited me last night in my whiskey
induced slumber, and brought back the
spark of inspiration and carnivorous yearning
to place this pen between my cancer stained
fingers and pour my ink blotted heart onto
these tattered pages once more.

My absence from society, from reality
was nothing short of being labeled insanity.
But something strange happened last night
when my heavy lids were weighed down
by the gravity of heartache and longing,
at the bottom of this depression I finally found
the words I have been searching for all along.

It’s it odd, how the thoughts, the dreams, even
the nightmares can all swim together, cloud
our minds and sorting through them, writing them
out of your mind, transferring the suffering onto
pages, just seems impossible?
How the sheer thought of revisiting some of the
thoughts, memories, second thoughts, regrets,
all of them, just seems so exhausting, so dreary.

But there was this moment in my dream,
as if I was staring into the sun, it stung, burned
my eyes, but I couldn’t look away.
This blinding light, a realization, that wallowing in this
state of self-loathing, depression and misery,
had sucked the breath from my dry, cracked lips
and it wasn’t until this brilliant light captivated
my sight did I gasp for another breath,
and remembered what being alive truly meant.

And I can picture you now,
oh, how you will savor the sweetness
of my words as they hang moist and thick
on your tongue, you will spend hours combing
my words to feel the passion meticulously placed
behind each individual letter.

Because I’m more beautiful and full
of inspiration than ever before,
the silence is over, and baby,
I’m back.

The Trickster

You tricked me, and somewhere in
the back of my mind, I knew you would,
I can curse you on these pages, scribble
your name and then rip it to shreds, but
I just wind up tasting the salty warmth
cascading down my cheeks, and
blame myself once more.

It had been so long since we had seen
each other, these miserable, lonely months
with the state lines a constant reminder
of the distance placed between our hearts.
But you were here, if only for a week, and
we vowed to share it together, and I have to
admit, it was so simple to fall back into your
embrace, it was almost as if you had never left me.

But the hardest part was pretending like we
had a future, like this was going to last, when
we both knew you would be boarding a plane
and ascending out of my life once again.
I tried to push those negative thoughts away,
and live in the moment, embrace the passion,
lust, I kissed you with my eyes closed, and
placed my hand on the back of your head,
twirling those soil colored locks in my fingers.
I gave in, just like you begged me to.

But you’ve done it again, you made me believe
that there was a place that I could call home
in your tired and rotting heart, I was so naive.
So here I sit in my bed, replaying your words
in my head, wondering what it is about me
that makes it so easy for you to walk away.

You were a trickster, a lovely little liar,
with those sweet words and soft lips,
and somehow you make me feel as if
I’m still the one to blame for all of my pain.

Read Between the Lines

Isn’t it strange how words have
such wonderful power to them?
The way they are just simple letters
strung together to produce sounds,
but they aren’t just sounds, are they?
No, they are the rhythms and passions,
the emotions and dreams that rest in
the darkest corners of our mind, and
warmest valves of our hearts.

The words in a song, poem, even a
simple conversation, they connected
our hearts, our minds, and that’s how
we fell in love, over the letters spilling
out of our mouths, and we chased them
down with warm glasses of whiskey.

We were both writers, or so we claimed,
and I remember nights we would write
our dreams in haikus, and burn them with
the cherry of our cigarettes, just for fun.
And some days we would just sit in bed
using our fingers to trace poetry on each
other’s painted skin,

But words can be tragic, hurtful, cold,
and I never thought the letters you threw
together could tear us so far apart.
It’s funny how words work, and I still feel
like words keep us connected somehow,
even when we are miles away, and I know
that you feel the same, I know you too well.

You are embedded deep within the letters
and words that I write, as if you are part
of the ink that pours from my heart and pen.
Even if you are a world away, I can picture you
reading my words over and over, feeling as if
they were all written just for you.

Letting Go

It took me a while to forget you,
who am I kidding, it took me a lifetime,
weeks, months, years, to repress the sweet
memories of your face, the taste of your kiss.
But I remember the exact moment, where
I finally let you go.

I had met someone else, who had
bright hazel eyes and created the most
magnificent words with the twist of his
wrist, a writer, a dreamer, a passionate lover.
And we shared our secrets, poured our hearts
out, whispering dreams to the empty bottles
of whiskey that laid before us, but something,
oh, there was something that felt so strange.

It was almost as if you were there with us,
you were trapped in my mind, and even with
someone else opening their chest to me,
running their fingers through my hair and
kissing me so lightly, with their eyes shut
so tightly, I couldn’t shake you from my sight.

But there was this moment, I’ll never forget it,
when he and I were sharing a glass of wine on
the porch, watching the stars, when I thought
of your face, except it wasn’t your face anymore,
no, I couldn’t remember what you looked like.
And then I tried to think of your kiss, or the
warmth of your touch, and those memories had
escaped my mind too. I thought I should be sad,
but the absent images of you lightened my stride,
lifted a weight from my heart, as if I could finally
give it away to someone new, a person who
truly deserved me.

It took me years, but I finally let you go,
like a nightmare, you will remain just a
sheer thought and a reminder of the pain
I had to endure to find true love.

My Own Fairy Tale

When I was young, I had always
imagined a life somewhat reminiscent
of a fairy tale that I could call my own.
Where I was beautiful, with a loving
heart, a caring and passionate soul,
and a strong man would sweep me
off my dainty feet, promising me a
lifetime of happiness, lust, and love.

That’s what the fairy tales teach us,
don’t they?
That as women we should be petite,
beautiful, obedient, only dreaming of
a falling in love, and living happily ever after.
But that isn’t how I dream, I can’t pretend
to be a damsel in distress, I refuse.

I am a strong woman, with goals,
dreams, and passions of my own,
and they don’t revolve around love,
but my own concept of happiness.
I love my unique qualities, as quirky
as they are, and I take pride in my
imperfections, my crooked smile,
and my wild, sometimes unmanageable curls.
I love the way I can control words,
those beautiful letters, how I manipulate
and tangle lines of prose from my heart,
almost bleeding thoughts onto paper.

I don’t dream of a man, stealing my
life and words to call me his own,
I am no one’s property, but instead,
a force to be reckoned with,
you can’t contain me.

My fairy tale is unlike the ones
I read in the story books, and maybe
I’m different, you can even say strange.
But I refuse to abandon my hopes,
ignore my wild imagination, and
if you can’t handle my strong mind,
then you aren’t my prince charming.

I am a writer, not a princess,
and I create my own happy ending.

The Best Part of Me

The best part of me?
Oh, that is something which
I keep as a secret,
hidden, and tucked away
reserved only for someone
who will take their time,
wait patiently, open their
chest, expose their tired heart,
one that matches mine,
and stays with me.

I can promise you this,
that you will always find new
things that could possibly be
considered the best of me,
and I’ll never confess which
one is true.
But you can never giving up hope,
please, stick around and see
that there will always be
surprises, mysteries and beauty
in store thanks to me.

And if you take this chance,
this lovely and dangerous challenge,
I promise a lifetime of breakfast in bed,
roller coasters and whiskey after a
terrible day at work,
a heart that will always beat soft
melodies for you,
passion between the tangled sheets,
and soft kisses before bed each nigh.

I can promise you this and more,
if you can be patient and wait and see
the best, the loveliest part of me.

Wishing Well

You would never call me stagnant,
as I flow and glide through life,
constantly changing and molding
myself into something spectacular,
each time more beautiful than the last.
I have become sacred territory,
when people from all across the world
travel to marvel at my existence,
oh, what a sight I have become.

Lovers giggle, close their eyes tightly,
and toss wishes into my satin stream,
hopes and dreams of soft kisses,
adoring stares, and a lifetime of passion.
Children bolt towards me, their tiny legs
flailing, their wild hair dancing in the breeze,
clenching a coin, while whispering
their wishes into a balled fist.

My insides are laced with
silver and gold hopes, dreams,
wishes, secrets, and thoughts.
I have become a sanctuary of love,
no one here wishes for hatred,
malice, or destruction,
oh no, I contain the most beautiful
and magnificent wishes and dreams.

It gets lonely at night, as I recall
the dreams, those both tarnished
and shiny, but there is one person
who has never been wished upon,
I know this is true, because even now
after all these years,
no one has ever made a wish for me.

My silent confession

It felt like something
out of a movie, a
scene where the viewer
could feel the surge of
passion between the
stares of two lovers.

You know the look
I’m talking about, that
deep and powerful gaze
where you take note of
the details in the hazel
outline of his eyes, and
you strain to keep your
eyes open, because
blinking could mean
missing a fraction of this
moment that you find
yourself lost within.

I had never dreamt of
being able to experience
that gripping and magical
sense looking through the
thick black rims that made
his eyes a sort of mystery.
But it was almost as if
I could see right through him,
I saw more than just irises
and the speckles of green
hues of his sight, but I
felt the soft compassion and
sweet words that he had
trapped within his mind,
I felt them swirling and
flowing through my veins.

I thought at once it was
a dream, for this sensation
deep within my chest
could never be real.
There were so many things
I wanted to confess, a long
list of sweet words followed
by soft, moist kisses.

But instead we both stayed quiet,
with our lips pressed together,
for no words could ever be
as perfect as the moment
we shared silently confessing our love.

I Became Smoke

It’s the way she moves,
how every part of her
breathes existence,
how her words drip with
passion, and how her
curves seethe sex appeal.

She’s punished by the past,
tortured by the present,
and terrified of the future.
She found a drought in humanity,
a lack of individuality and
genuine hearts.

She is a misanthropic disaster,
a wad of crumpled poems
under her painted skin.
Her mind is mysterious,
and her heart is bigger
than her body.
But she will never invite you
to see it, she won’t allow it.
Don’t even bother.

But yet, she wants you to try.
Prove to her that this world
isn’t all bitter and lost,
as she is.
Find a way to her heart,
a way no one else
has tried before, and if
you ever get inside
her chest, if you see that
momentary glimmer in her eye,
stay there.

Stay in that moment.
Stop time, do whatever
it takes to keep that moment alive.
Because when that glimmer fades,
when that second has passed,
you will never see it again.
She will evaporate like the
smoke trapped in her lungs,
it’s the only way she knows.

And then, she’s gone.

Mysterious Love

His passion was contagious
that infectious smile
which revealed ivory bones
moist with perfection.

He had these mysterious
mannerisms, unique
perspective on this chaotic
mess of reality that he
called his life.
He seized each bright moment,
stepped on cracks in the
sidewalks, and at night he
would take burning gulps
from the whiskey bottles
we would share over
conversations of old memories
of first kisses, and heartaches.

I drank his words as
he held my hands,
softly kissing my fingertips.
We were a sight to see,
the two of us, sitting there
drinking away the misery
in this world, focusing only
on the mystery and
beauty we found in each other.