For workshopping 28Sep17

Secret Admirer:


Hair golden like honey, dripping over his eyes,

Beautiful and haunting like a winter storm.

A laugh like liquid fire in my veins,

Stoking the furnace of my heart

Breathing me back to life.


With his neck bent in a solemn prayer,

He was otherworldly.

I felt his presence all around me,

A ghost, a silent watcher.


I envisioned him holding me in his arms

Wrapping me in a cocoon of never-ending spring.

I knew he wanted me, loved me

And I convinced myself we were meant to be together,

But the rejection shattered me,

His knife cutting and destroying.


I wallowed in my delusions,

Sinking myself deeper into the love I created.

I carved his name into my notebooks in red ink,

The candid polaroids in a well-worn scrapbook,

Hidden under my bed.

I became a fixture in the window,

Viewing my favorite kind of film.


I watched and followed,

Wanting to be closer, craving him near me

Wishing to experience what it would be like to be his.

A piece of paper signed,

On the dotted line couldn’t stop me

And I became the ghost, haunting and stalking

And I knew he couldn’t run forever.



Blood drips from my knuckles onto sterile white tile as I pick up the pieces of the mirror I smashed. I hit it because I was angry and because I was tired. Because I wanted to feel strong and for once I wanted to feel like there was something in my life I had control over. I hit it because I’m tired of holding in the screams. I feel a storm trapped inside me, but there is nothing beautiful or magnificent about it. It is terrifying and ugly and it cuts into my heart as surely as the glass cut into me. And thus I am left, picking up the pieces of a mirror and wondering if my hands will scar.



С Любовь


A Villanelle


This handheld package in my arms

where my fingers dust along foreign characters.

His simple box of gifts and charms.


At first sight, my heart is a loaded firearm

demanding the box be pried open. Obedient hands are wrestlers

with this handheld package in my arms.


By little delicacies I’m disarmed.

Cautiously painted eggs–Ukrainian treasures.

His simple box of gifts and charms.


These mere trinkets grow lukewarm

beside his eleven-page handwritten letter.

This handheld package in my arms


held sweet concerns yet soft alarms

for me, my sake, and my endless misadventures.

All in his simple box of gifts and charms.


My giddy grin is overwhelmed in violent tears by the swarms.

His months of effort contained in one gesture:

this handheld package in my arms,

his simple box of gifts and charms.






Chill winter air

Miserable, or so I’m told

Chill winter air

But I love the crisp cool fanfare

The glassy ice, so clear so cold

But that’s just me; I break the mold

Chill winter air



Rest in Peace


I, the self I’ve always been,

Died this day as all good things must do.

So from this life I take my leave

Many things still here, have I yet to see.

Years go by and times will change,

Ago, the ages pass me by.


Ago, this time I look into the past.

I spend these years in peaceful rest.

Years go by and things all change,

Died, these years of days gone by.

Many have walked above my grave,

So few know, I watch them from below.


So few know that I rest here,

Ago, they put me in the ground.

Many have joined me since that day,

I lye here and wait in my grave.

Died, as all things do, lye here waiting for all,

Years go by and things do change, but still I wait, in my grave


Years, do pass and life does change.

So I’ll wait here in my grave

Died, another one, now joins our crew.

Ago the ages pass us through,

I watch the living in the sun

Many soon to join our fun.


Many times I’ve wondered why

Years go by and all must die,

I wonder at nature’s course

So why the living have to hurt.

Ago, the ages pass me by,

Died another thousand more.


Died so many here today,

Many more are on their way.

Ago as time walks by and by

Years of anguish pass us by,

So we lye here in the grave,

I wonder why they put us here.


So this is how all stories end,

Many tales have spun into this thread.

Years go by and all things change,

Ago, the time walks past my grave.

I watch as all these things do change,

Died, another thousand, add to the grave.



Incantation No. 3 (Bring me the Disco King)

[sung something-like A Villanelle]


ring of awe, full floating things,

bow down closer. regiment in skeletons:

bring me the Disco King.


catacombs of castaways, a sewer line

space & time—once-dead bells

ring of awe, full floating things.


revoke this new era: cancel our subscription.

revoke all the smoke & mirrors. bring

Me the Disco King.


gallop, drag me, on the bones of progress.

rat me out as the wind rustles, you

Ring of Awful Floating Things.


musty meadow, ashen downs

collapsing. meteor on my kite string:

bring me the disco king


Flesh, wind, and arrows sing

—ring of awful floating things.

Meat cleavers, cleverly:

Bring me the Disco King.



I never thought I’d see our end,

Never thought I’d have to say goodbye

That day I lost my dear old friend


There were pained letters that I couldn’t send

And no matter how hard I tried,

I had to let go so my soul could mend


And there was a time when

After I left, there was always a tear in my eye.

That day I lost my dear old friend


But did your sympathies ever bend?

Are there times that you cried

And wished to die

And hide away so your soul could mend?


That day you lost your dear old friend.





Like the Venus de Milo she stands

A glorious statue of femininity

She memorizes my face with her calloused hands

I have never beheld such divinity


A glorious statue of femininity

With soft, supple curves warm and inviting

I have never beheld such divinity

I pray that the lord with hear my plighting


With soft, supple curves warm and inviting

And milky skin with freckles like the stars

I pray that the lord will hear my plighting

Her picture hidden in my box of memoirs


And milky skin with freckles like stars

She memorizes my face with her hands

Her picture hidden in my box of memoirs

Like the Venus de Milo she stands.





Control yourself

Punches land on the mat he holds

Control yourself

Tired of fighting this battle

He pulls me in with strong arms

I guess the fight is over now

Control yourself





She left me here.

To curse, to weep, to gnash alone.

She left me here.

In the dark, forsaken, I moan.

She said we would forever be.

She chose instead to go be free.

What the hell has she done to me?

She left me here.






In all the things I wish not to see

The image of my past home

Whose eery skeleton shows the burns

That left her empty, void, and dead.

And with her all the memories I know

Are gone all things I used to love.


My father yelled, “Run far, dear love,

And dont look back,” so I would not see

The reality that I now know

As he ran back into our home.

He went to get our loved ones, dead,

And emerged no more, instead, he burned.


Now in my memory flashes burn

Of the bodies of those whose love

Once proved enough, but now, memories dead.

I long for days to no longer see

The reckage of a once dear home.

A place I wish I did not know.


Now among the crowd who thinks they know

All the turmoil that burns

Inside my soulless home

They try to comfort my young heart to love

Again, new things to see

But all inside I just feel dead.


Of the world, I cannot reach the land of the dead

But there, I know

He will wait for me, to see

The hope he saved to burn

Throughout my life. I long for the love

That he taught me inside our eternal home


A million remnants of that home

Still fall in ashes as I watch, now dead,

And wait for a Father’s endless love

The comforts that I can know

Amidst the heroes ending the burn

And showing that which wasn’t to see


To see the home

That burned him dead,

And know his love will come again.



Dance with the Wind – Villanelle


I tap out a rhythm as I smile,

Anxious breathes run thin with the breeze

Awaiting the resounding wile.


The steady beats drum wild,

As I sung a familiar tune of my child past,

And tap out a rhythm as I smiled.


Now alone, but not with guile

I shudder with pride and singing cold

Awaiting the resounding wile.


My eyes open to a green isle,

Where stands my baby looking at me, expecting.

I tap out a rhythm as I smile.


He leaps and giggles into leaves’ pile,

A dance with the wind ensues on the moor,

Awaiting the resounding wile.


The dance is done, the mirth now bile.

My child fades, woe besets me to rile!

I tap out a rhythm as I smile,

Awaiting the resounding wile.



There is a island of guilt. They call it the guilt island.

continue it is a island from the edge of the shore u could

shore horror ran from it. the island continue in guilt as if

something was continue and thee is a need in needing it.

Guilt seemed to be the only thing it ever saw and every

time it saw it it always humbled the slow tune of  week.

I felt sad and the fear was unreal to the sense of the guilt

made the water seem like a endless pit of sadness and guilt

of course and out guilt there is no fiend there is no guilt why

guackening the store and guilt.  what was the fell should i carry

it out to the beach so it feels no longer the same feeling.



Gasping for breath

My mind spins, I cant concentrate

Gasping for breath

No energy, make it stop-please!

Mundane tasks I’ve now come to hate

Rest I need, and I gave,  too late

Gasping for breath





that’s what they told me.

They told me love,

that’s what they told me.


That’s what love told me,

they told me, love.

What they told me,

that’s love!


that’s what they told me,

that’s what they told




They told me,

that’s love.

Me? They told me?


That’s love?


That’s love.

They told me.

That’s love.


Love, love, love

that’s what they told me.


That’s what they told me,



I’ve fallen out of poetry

My muse no longer visits me

I tried and tried to fill the page

The war, it seemed, not mine to wage.

Abandoned by my fallow words

I’m struck down


This is a blank page by which I have silently sworn to redeem myself.

Where has my inspiration gone?

The other night, I brought heavy steps to the side of a snowy mountain, seeking my inner instructor.

My enemies were upon me

on my very heels!

but I was incapable of fear.

The terrifying part came in the morning

when the invisible guru turned me away with the sound of an alarm

and I realized that the guide I sought

didn’t exist—had never existed.

My muse is dead

but I still carry on over desolate white hills

By this blank page, I have silently sworn to redeem myself.



Title:The Perfect Fall Day
I listened to the crunch of heaven colored leaves
as I walk over to the park near my house,
I loved fall the beautiful leaves that came in colors
that we might never know how or where they were created.
The leaves seem to sparkle in some lights the sun not always
visible but always easy to feel. I loved that. The white fluffy
balls in the sky always waved in a motion only described as
wonderful and beautiful.
My walks in the morning were always fun especially in the warm
fall weather and I always bought a coffee with a pumpkin pie slice
 to go along with it to get into the spirt after all halloween was just
 around the corner.
The tree were already bald from leaves falling off every day.
 A deep breath though the nose sent a feeling of hope and wonder
 and a smell of all the things about fall.All the pictures that are taken
on this beautiful scenario are just perfect to post online. Fall a season
of wonder and beauty all around This is my perfect fall day.

Twenty- One

In elementary school we use to play this game

where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm

or pinky finger could tell us how long we’d live

or how many kids we’d have.


“You’ll live to be 76, and have 4 kids” she said.


Natalie and I had nothing to fear

because our lives would consist of happiness and love.

And somehow we were fortune tellers at the age of nine

and we had the stars aligned in our favor acting as saviors for each other

while we whispered silent prayers to God

asking him to make us best friends forever,

but apparently forever only lasted until middle school.


It’s now January 2014 and my hands

they hold story lines,

they’ve worn and calloused,

they’ve scarred and torn,

carrying expectations like a balancing act,

sweating and slipping until they can’t hold on anymore.


But we all carry around these things inside us

that no one else can see

and it took me twenty-one years to realize what they meant

when they said the monsters don’t live under your bed.


I remember when the mornings started with the sun rising.

I remember when the days ended with the moon shining.

I remember how I used to see the world,

how I use to live.

Now days fade into nights and

nights fade into mornings,

what felt like a perfect picture,

now looks like a distorted drawing.

To have what feels like a beautiful masterpiece,

and to see it bleed,

to see all its colors fade,

right in front of you,

and the only thing you can do is try to paint a new picture,

but sometimes it’s hard,

when you realize the world doesn’t appreciate art

like it used to.


The humans walk past me, barely acknowledging that I’m there.
Legs and feet dressed in pressed black slacks, soft leather shoes.
They don’t ever stop. I can flash my sensors or try to follow them
But they just sigh and say “Malfunction. But what else can we do?”
I try to do my work well so they’ll notice how much I care.
They made me after all. Why shouldn’t I love them all?
But for forty two days, five hours, twenty-seven minutes, three seconds
All I’ve gotten is spilled coffee, tripping feet, knocked around like I’m nothing.
They made me and I love them.
So why don’t they love me?
“Finally, here’s my files. What took it so long?” The man sighs
I am invisible to them. It is something that I just have to accept.
“Not an ‘it’, Tal. His name is CAS8.” Her voice is gentle.
I spin around slowly, worn treads on worn carpet
The database of Pathos employees crosses my sensors,
Blue light flickering too fast for the humans to see until it stops
On a small picture and a name. Someone who sees me.
“It’s a robot, Kate. It doesn’t understand you.” How can’t he see?
When Kate turns to leave I follow
Despite other orders. They can wait.
“You have a shadow, Kate,” the others whisper to her, like it’s bad.
But she replies “I know,” and continues on her way. With me behind.
These blank white walls now glow with halogens when she turns
And calls “Come on CAS!” The lights are glittering in her eyes.
They call it a malfunction. They don’t know how to repair me.
Only Kate says “He’s not broken,” and takes me back with her.
She likes her room warm, 73 degrees, but she still likes warm clothes.
And she likes explaining her work to me, all calculated trajectories.
It’s strange. She didn’t make me.
And yet, I think she loves me.
An alarm goes off. Three klaxons, and a red switch goes up in my sensor.
Emergency Protocol. Kate wakes up, her heart rate too high.
“Stay here, CAS,” she says, running out her door but I
Can’t just leave her. My treads whir to life. Too slow. But Kate could die.
The lights go dark, and all sound stops. It’s black like I’ve never seen.
I check my optical sensor. No issues found, but I can’t see a thing.
One last alarm rings out, and one final notice pops up on my screen.
Electromagnetic Pulse detected. Station security compromised.
I need to find Kate and tell her.
Because without her, no one will love me.
Rebooting. 34 percent functionality. Welcome online CAS unit 8.
Part of my optical sensor has been damaged, but I still see
Down a hallway of broken walls, fallen pipes and black screens.
Through dim lights and smoke and dust, I move my treads through debris.
I’ve followed Kate to her office so many times before, nothing feels different.
I enter underneath a collapsed door. Kate is sleeping at her desk,
But I can’t see her life signs on my screen. And when I flash my sensor,
She doesn’t move. And then I understand. Security compromised.
Kate isn’t waking up. Her smile is gone forever, and all
Of her projects and ideas and gentle words aren’t coming back.
And realize that now I see
That despite all I tried to do
She won’t wake up.
And never again will she love me.

A Monster Is Born

A gunshot rang out in the night

Breath turns to ice in winter air

And then it stops.

For just a moment,

the world is one monster fewer.

A second shot,

A woman tears through the forest

Hands of trees and villagers


Three shots this time;

Uttered by the looming clock tower

Watching the woman run for her life

And for theirs.

A fourth shot

A new monster is born

As her pistol fires towards

Her Victims.

Five shots

Gunpowder and bruises.

Terrible pain and melting snow

Breath turns to ice in winter air

Six shots.

One from each victim.

Six new monsters are born

The previous, face down in the snow.

Now the world is one monster fewer

Yet six monsters more

For, who can truly destroy a monster

Without becoming a monster too?

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