Once upon a midnight dreary
You’ll Never Find Me

I have spent the last few nights
searching my mind for answers
to questions I haven’t had the
courage to speak out loud.
These questions, my heart’s
most secret of wishes and dreams,
the ones that I fear will allow
you to see the one true thing
I have made a profession at hiding,
the real me.

I have heard that we are all
good at something in life, and
it took me a while, more searching
this so called soul of mine, to
find something that sets me apart
makes me seem unique, special.
And it was strange, how I could
not find one thing that I was good
at, sure, breaking hearts and
running away from pain, I had
made that into a shameful career.

But I am the one left to live with
the pain and sinking, empty feeling
in my heart, knowing how I have hurt
so many innocent men, drained the
sense of hope and dreams of the future
from their worn,

So I ran, changed my name, the way
my hair fell over my face, I can’t let
them see the real me ever again.
I have perfected the art of
becoming invisible, unseen,
unable to be tracked down or
remembered in this distant concrete jungle.

So I search my mind and my heart
during these blurry whiskey nights
searching for the answer to
who I truly am and I’m left whispering
to the darkness, my tired heart,
and these endless empty bottles.

This is What I Am

I am beautiful.
And trust me, so are you.
You might look at
this poem and think
"How can she say this,
she doesn’t know me.”
You’re right, I don’t,
but I wish I did, I hope that
we can speak all night until
the sun decides to show her
bright and radiant face,
just to give me a night where
I could get to know you
and all the quirky little things
that make you the unique and
magnificent you.

They called me weird, different,
names that people fear and run from.
But you know what I say to them…
Who wants to be normal anyways?
Aren’t the dreamers, the wishers,
the artists and free-thinkers the ones
who changed the world, who made
it a time worth living?

And yes, you can be beautiful
on the outside, but what I really
care about, what I look for in a
friend, companion, lover, is how
beautiful you are on the inside,
how your hopes and dreams
are wild and extravagant, and how
your heart is bigger than the rest
of your body, no matter what the size.

I want to blame society, for making
us fall victim to believing in one type
of beauty, an unattainable figure and size
that we torture ourselves over,
I admit that I too failed to achieve that image.

But I didn’t fail,
I found out who I am in the process,
I discovered how I’m different than the rest,
how my flaws, scars, and frizzy hair
make up the person that I am proud to be.

I am beautiful,
I won’t let anyone tell me other wise,
and I wish I could know you,
so I could tell you how beautiful you are too.

One line poetry

You may have given up on your dreams, and abandoned wishing on stars, so call me crazy, but darling, wishes and dreams are what I live for.

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.

So much more

I wish rocks were more
than just stones trapped
in warm soil, and
I wish these trees could
speak to me tell me their
oak secrets, saved only
for the dreamers, like me,
craving the sweet ancient
melodies they sing.

I want the breeze to be more
than the wind blowing
through my hair, maybe
they could be the whispers of
unwritten love letters that once
were spoken to the clouds.
I wish the sun was more than
a burning star that singes
my pale skin, I just sit here
in the grass while it prickles
the backs of my legs, and

I wish.
I wish on every blade
of grass,
I wish on each limb of
the trees, engulfing the
satin blue sky
that you will
somehow make
it back to me.

The world seemed like so
much more when you were around. 

I really wish….

That there was a poetry/writers blogging conference with passionate and motivated writers around the state. Hell, I’d even travel across some states to be able to meet with/collaborate with people who share the same love as I have for this art form.

Does that sound crazy, or could this really happen?

Would anyone even be interested in organizing something?!

Call me what you will

They didn’t believe in me,
plain and simple.
Told me to take my head
out of the clouds,
bring my sight back
to the concrete nightmare
under my feet, where
I’ve heard the Earth is
spinning, but sadly,
I can’t feel a thing.

They called me a dreamer,
a wisher, a thinker.
As if that was something
I should be ashamed of.
I felt lost and alone,
like I’m the only one
who dreams in color anymore.

I refuse to scour these
streets with tears in my eyes,
and a darkness in my chest
that I only soothe with the
burning liquors I find at night.

Maybe I won’t change
the world, perhaps I’ll
never make a difference,
but that won’t stop the
words that flow from
my heart and make their
way onto these pages.

Keep calling me a dreamer,
it’s the only thing I’ve ever known.

A memory of a memory

I hear raindrops on my window,
and not a sign of sunshine on my sheets,
I can’t lay here forever,
but on days like this,
I wish I could.

I have lived, but haven’t bloomed.
I thought maybe once, but I
shrank back inside of myself,
scared, perhaps.

I forgot how to wish on stars,
and stopped pulling petals
off poor, innocent flowers.
What did they ever do to me?
I was just wasting wishes on you.

I went away, drank, wrote
letters that I wanted to send,
some of them were sweet, but
most were filled with hate.

But even my letters began
to slowly grow apart, so much
like we had.
Sometimes I feel like my
teeth are falling out, and
one day I won’t be around anymore.
We will both forget and move on,
we will try and remember, but
I’ll remain an image.
A distinct scent in a room, or
a sound that prickles your skin.

Until I’m simply a memory,
and then a memory of a memory.
And I’ll fade out of your mind
so long after I’ve disappeared
until you strain to remember me,

sometimes it’s tragic to think
how the mind can be
so cold, heartless, and forgetful.

Colors

He saw the world differently
than I had ever imagined.
We laid there in the grass
staring up at the empty
black sky, I felt the weight
of nothingness, and heard
the deafening silence
of the light breeze.

He said the sky wasn’t black,
but shades of blues, swirling
twisting and blending together.
He said that colors speak
if we would only wait to listen.
I wish I could see colors
the way that he does, maybe
then I could find some
beauty in this world.

He smiled to the sky,
while lightly holding my hand,
never once did he consider
the world to be ugly, miserable,
empty, as I see it.
How could he capture so much
beauty and pain in those
shades with the simple
stroke of a hand?

There was nothing spectacular
that happened this night,
no love story to be written
but I’ll never forget the way
he revealed his heart to me.

It was almost as if he spoke
in the loveliest of colors.

Petals

I sat in the grass while it tickled my thighs
I sat anyways.
Focused on the breeze
the whistle through my ears,
the dancing oak lovers in the distance.
Leaves dripping green jealous dew,
I picked up the flower and thought about you.
With your train smile and foreign tongue,
I plucked each petal and wasted wishes
until the naked flower raised it’s head and whispered,
"He doesn’t love you, he never will"
I shrugged, defeated.
This humid night with no response,
where silence is a sound
hanging so thick, I could chew right through it.
I tossed the flower in the grass,

I never liked talking to flowers anyways.

Painted Dreams

I knew he had fallen asleep,
his head rested on my lap
and I ran my fingers through
his thick hair, it was
the color of pecan pie.
It brought me back to my
southern roots, to the kitchen
where my tiny feet could
be heard, sneaking and
stealing finger tips full of
whipped cream and
giggling behind my innocent curls.

His eyes were closed,
and I felt his breathing slow,
the timing was different,
he had escaped reality and
I wondered what beautiful
colors and images flickered
behind those twitching lids.

He was a simple boy,
sometimes living in his
own mind, dreaming in the
brightest of colors, pouring
his crimson ink on his tattered
black notebook he kept
close to his heart.
He was charming with his
wild hair, that coy smile
hiding his teeth as his
shy eyes danced around
my gaze, then retired to the floor.

I let him rest there a while,
but I couldn’t help but
wonder what he was dreaming of,
and softly I kissed his eyelids
wishing it was pictures of me
he painted in his sweet dreams.

Please, be my muse?

We sat there together writing
letters to the clouds, we kept
our eyes closed, our pens dancing,
bled our hearts and dreams
onto these tattered notebooks.
I waited for you to set the pen down
and shake your hand wildly, making
that silly, pained face.
I had written you a speech, recited,
practiced, memorized it for you.

I wish you would be my muse,
we could lay in bed where I could be
inspired by the galaxy and mystery
found in your blue eyes.
We will suddenly leave town, start
driving, explore the winding roads
drink at new bars, creating fake
names and pretend to fall in love.
Some nights we will have candy
and soda for dinner, giggling with
sweet and sour tongues, staying awake
to watch the sun pour shades
of orange and red over our bodies.

I want to feel the rush of inspiration,
that sudden jolt where my pen can’t
keep up with the thoughts in my mind.
I want to feel the surge of passion,
that makes me take my time loving you.

Please, will you be my muse?
Show me there’s more to life than
dreaming, wishing, waiting for the
most beautiful words to appear in
my mind, for me to call my own.

Good morning, world! 
I’ve already been awake and working on some assignments for the past 2 hours, and I’m going to be stuck at my desk for the next 4 more hours before I have to drive to Tampa for class. Wow, what an exciting summer! Now, it’s time for more coffee and maybe a cupcake for breakfast. Judge me. Also, my coffee would probably be much more enjoyable if a cute boy brought it to me, but hey, maybe one day.

Good morning, world!

I’ve already been awake and working on some assignments for the past 2 hours, and I’m going to be stuck at my desk for the next 4 more hours before I have to drive to Tampa for class.
Wow, what an exciting summer!
Now, it’s time for more coffee and maybe a cupcake for breakfast. Judge me.
Also, my coffee would probably be much more enjoyable if a cute boy brought it to me, but hey, maybe one day.