Admissions When you exploit every weakness You might profit each gain When you make enemies of morality Then it’s the results that remain No gate that you stop at Will divulge this ambition They will hound you for numbers Calculate for admission Don’t be discouraged when no one cares how you’ve fought When at long last your voice fails And your exhaust is for naught Not every power line leads To the dial - tone home Not every strike will crush down On every breakable bone You must be resourceful Wise to each game Learn all the numbers And spell out your name In grand glowing lights In strong, even demands You can translate the diction You  could not understand When they tell you: you can’t! There are ten more ways you can! When they say it’s to late-- Then construct a new plan There is always a way When on cunning you depend Within desperation is strength When you begin with an end   How A Man Is Made This is how you devastate a child: strip them from the roots of wild-- erode the allowance to accept                                     A man awakes were a boy once slept                                                    You see him as an aging being His eyes are dark from years of seeing These  little shoes and little feet soon roam the streets for food to eat In a corner of the alley by the by, and in the dark comes a monster unraveling it’s little roar will leave a mark When teeth they break, and voices too, He’s sent to do what all boys do He solves the puzzles, soaks in word An end to curiosity, as is preferred She will love him, and then she’ll leave, more will come, who love to deceive The innocence of childhood begins to fade this is how a man is made How A Man Is Made This is how you devastate a child: strip them from the roots of wild-- erode the allowance to accept                                     A man awakes were a boy once slept                                                    You see him as an aging being His eyes are dark from years of seeing These  little shoes and little feet soon roam the streets for food to eat In a corner of the alley by the by, and in the dark comes a monster unraveling it’s little roar will leave a mark When teeth they break, and voices too, He’s sent to do what all boys do He solves the puzzles, soaks in word An end to curiosity, as is preferred She will love him, and then she’ll leave, more will come, who love to deceive The innocence of childhood begins to fade this is how a man is made Invisible Girls There’s this girl I know who’s world, she says, is a beautiful disaster, She trips and falls, and cries, and bawls she’s to slow, and they’re much faster She’s an invisible girl, surrounded by invisible girls they hang their heads, with not an ounce of pride She says if we’re all “beautiful girls” with such “beautiful minds” Then tell me why does everyone hide? She says she’s running through the school now, and she’s quiet, but she’s screaming for someone just to love her for this world to have some meaning there’s a boy that still won’t call her and she won’t pick up her phone Convinced that he won’t ever hear her she walks on, all alone She wants to be a really loud girl who’s words and shouts are heard with spiked up hair and wide brown eyes to reach a cool that’s just ...absurd! When she smiles in a crowd now it’s her insecurities that glow but when she’s home she sees herself The one that she is to afraid to show An exercise in futility, Still, she tries to fight the fear, to want is to wait, because fate comes to late when you’re waiting to appear Invisible Girls There’s this girl I know who’s world, she says, is a beautiful disaster, She trips and falls, and cries, and bawls she’s to slow, and they’re much faster She’s an invisible girl, surrounded by invisible girls they hang their heads, with not an ounce of pride She says if we’re all “beautiful girls” with such “beautiful minds” Then tell me why does everyone hide? She says she’s running through the school now, and she’s quiet, but she’s screaming for someone just to love her for this world to have some meaning there’s a boy that still won’t call her and she won’t pick up her phone Convinced that he won’t ever hear her she walks on, all alone She wants to be a really loud girl who’s words and shouts are heard with spiked up hair and wide brown eyes to reach a cool that’s just ...absurd! When she smiles in a crowd now it’s her insecurities that glow but when she’s home she sees herself The one that she is to afraid to show An exercise in futility, Still, she tries to fight the fear, to want is to wait, because fate comes to late when you’re waiting to appear What You Didn't Know We’ve made up our own definitions of truth I think you said that as you sipped your coffee Made points of analysis in your soup And diagnosed our lying “Oh Ilana, there are things you don’t know.” And there are things I don’t know Like how deep the Nile flows Or what number our populations rests on Who the president was back then And the reasons why I haven’t gone Your muttering something about your excuse Making the hours on the clock abide by what you do Tables can’t hold your alibi, but they can hold your food? Open up, tell me why I am so far away from truth I am making a truth all my own Maybe that’s the reason why everyone Is staring at me And wondering how I know There are things that I know Like why I’m breathing past my expiration Holding on, why I’m strong, With and without my explanation My made-up truth Its kept me on What You Didn't Know We’ve made up our own definitions of truth I think you said that as you sipped your coffee Made points of analysis in your soup And diagnosed our lying “Oh Ilana, there are things you don’t know.” And there are things I don’t know Like how deep the Nile flows Or what number our populations rests on Who the president was back then And the reasons why I haven’t gone Your muttering something about your excuse Making the hours on the clock abide by what you do Tables can’t hold your alibi, but they can hold your food? Open up, tell me why I am so far away from truth I am making a truth all my own Maybe that’s the reason why everyone Is staring at me And wondering how I know There are things that I know Like why I’m breathing past my expiration Holding on, why I’m strong, With and without my explanation My made-up truth Its kept me on 5.30.96 I am trapped inside a memory, a child reaching for the phone, oh, will they ever come for me? Or will I grow up on my own? This is where I loose a part of me, something significant I can’t define, have I lost my naivety to the bandits of our time? The numbers have all disappeared Touch everything just to get free I am trapped inside the memory Right here, I’ve lost a part of me A Debt He is a child who will always struggle a fight to compensate a past the world can not condemn he will play a polite role for society and wear a patterned tie and do all of his work with practiced ease in foolish hopes that the world might forget graduate, marry, produce children, buy houses, donate wages, keep every stone in place, and always check the door to make sure the locks are holding pay bills, write letters, read books, change the light bulbs, change the tires, have a practiced introduction go on vacation seedy motels on a private credit card or pay in cash drink coffee hide cigarettes from the children he dreams that she could love him and they could move away and no longer would he have to live up to an apology for his mistakes 5.30.96 I am trapped inside a memory, a child reaching for the phone, oh, will they ever come for me? Or will I grow up on my own? This is where I loose a part of me, something significant I can’t define, have I lost my naivety to the bandits of our time? The numbers have all disappeared Touch everything just to get free I am trapped inside the memory Right here, I’ve lost a part of me A Debt He is a child who will always struggle a fight to compensate a past the world can not condemn he will play a polite role for society and wear a patterned tie and do all of his work with practiced ease in foolish hopes that the world might forget graduate, marry, produce children, buy houses, donate wages, keep every stone in place, and always check the door to make sure the locks are holding pay bills, write letters, read books, change the light bulbs, change the tires, have a practiced introduction go on vacation seedy motels on a private credit card or pay in cash drink coffee hide cigarettes from the children he dreams that she could love him and they could move away and no longer would he have to live up to an apology for his mistakes The Anatomy of Morality They’ve painted the streets the same color as my skin The pigments tell a story, where the ending’s no place to begin I have done so many terrible things, I can’t even relay my sins my atonement would be endless it’s a war I’d never win and I don’t know god There are boys in the back of the library offering up their souls to Jesus! And a young woman, crying over the loss of her innocence and I’m offering up my time to a paper? The Anatomy of Morality and my opposition for incision I’ve dropped my scalpel before I’ve even seen the body there must be something in the formaldehyde otherwise, there’s something wrong with me At my doorstep there is a heavy bag a poster of a man, who I’ve never felt inclined to obsess over Everything you’ve given me was on clearance, I can clearly see the indents in the plastic, the tears in the lining of the fabric and your inability to ever hand it just to me You’ve always got to make some kind of statement I’ve listened to your monologue, the lies they travel on and on, and I have forever researched, ripping your diaries apart for a clue for three words to prove something about a girl you never knew These packages aren’t enough anymore don’t you ever grow stale of this game? Or forget your position on the board? Or have you remembered what you fight for? I doubt it I wake up in the middle of the night, with the most primal urges and irrelevant emotion that in every respect makes sense and my ability to feel hunger, and passion, and sadness frees me from the emotionless, inhumane blood, corrupting my veins and your malice is irrelevant, my history resolved my tears a new birth certificate, and a new name I have found resolution in my own humanity The Anatomy of Morality They’ve painted the streets the same color as my skin The pigments tell a story, where the ending’s no place to begin I have done so many terrible things, I can’t even relay my sins my atonement would be endless it’s a war I’d never win and I don’t know god There are boys in the back of the library offering up their souls to Jesus! And a young woman, crying over the loss of her innocence and I’m offering up my time to a paper? The Anatomy of Morality and my opposition for incision I’ve dropped my scalpel before I’ve even seen the body there must be something in the formaldehyde otherwise, there’s something wrong with me At my doorstep there is a heavy bag a poster of a man, who I’ve never felt inclined to obsess over Everything you’ve given me was on clearance, I can clearly see the indents in the plastic, the tears in the lining of the fabric and your inability to ever hand it just to me You’ve always got to make some kind of statement I’ve listened to your monologue, the lies they travel on and on, and I have forever researched, ripping your diaries apart for a clue for three words to prove something about a girl you never knew These packages aren’t enough anymore don’t you ever grow stale of this game? Or forget your position on the board? Or have you remembered what you fight for? I doubt it I wake up in the middle of the night, with the most primal urges and irrelevant emotion that in every respect makes sense and my ability to feel hunger, and passion, and sadness frees me from the emotionless, inhumane blood, corrupting my veins and your malice is irrelevant, my history resolved my tears a new birth certificate, and a new name I have found resolution in my own humanity A Warrior He comes in to find you flush against the wall, your smile has faded into cut lips, and contusions, you have painted yourself a mostly satisfying illusion As long as the music is blaring and you never stop talking, you won’t have to listen to the incessant crying buried under, mounds of blankets, cups of coffee, cups of wine how the mighty have fallen over chairs, and over time And you, the sagacious debutante, flush up against the wall, who will keep you safe at night who will take you to the ball? Who will escort the princess, in her Sunday best, when she’s naked from the waist up, when she’s bathed in someone’s sweat? How indecent, how indulgent, is this what you had in mind by freedom? The choices you’ve made have left you broken, and oh how bemused by the simplicity of imprisonment the home you’d never choose how the mighty have fallen, how the virgins have died, how we eat our words, how we’re unsatisfied how he sees the body of a warrior, and the fire in her eyes, reaches out a hand to her and is befuddled when he’s denied She believes there is a little something called independence, and the choices she’s made are livable you may think they’re unforgivable, but what do you know about choices anyway?   A Warrior He comes in to find you flush against the wall, your smile has faded into cut lips, and contusions, you have painted yourself a mostly satisfying illusion As long as the music is blaring and you never stop talking, you won’t have to listen to the incessant crying buried under, mounds of blankets, cups of coffee, cups of wine how the mighty have fallen over chairs, and over time And you, the sagacious debutante, flush up against the wall, who will keep you safe at night who will take you to the ball? Who will escort the princess, in her Sunday best, when she’s naked from the waist up, when she’s bathed in someone’s sweat? How indecent, how indulgent, is this what you had in mind by freedom? The choices you’ve made have left you broken, and oh how bemused by the simplicity of imprisonment the home you’d never choose how the mighty have fallen, how the virgins have died, how we eat our words, how we’re unsatisfied how he sees the body of a warrior, and the fire in her eyes, reaches out a hand to her and is befuddled when he’s denied She believes there is a little something called independence, and the choices she’s made are livable you may think they’re unforgivable, but what do you know about choices anyway?   An Awakening Child She clutches the blankets to her naked chest, trembling white hands in a grip that suggests a want for something still, in a quaking, upset world The dreams, the dreams, they tell her things, they are real, they are real They breathe everything she begs not to feel There is a man sitting up against an orange tree, a notebook, sitting in his lap, dripping wet and empty He shakes it in his hands, tosses it into the field, and its swallowed by the insects, and its eaten by the dirt He hunches forward to inspect the grave, a fire’s born beneath his fingers, scorches his hands, and his screams explain they are no more they are no more The handless man begins to sob, and his endless tears, they flood the field, and drowned him in his misery, his body by the orange tree A woman stands behind a curtain, her hand covering her blinded eyes Cries of betrayal beg to burst, She’s uncovering a life of lies She watches as the monster, makes love to a dress, the lips that confessed undying love, and with a kiss, he is possessed and she is suddenly screaming, as bodies aflame, lay claim to a future, a widow, a name I am afraid, I am a child, I am flicker of a flame that grows wild, it spreads and it eats all the forest, the green, and blinds first the eyes, to be done with what’s seen I am growing, expanding, hungry for bark, for the sunrise to fall, so I can dispel the dark I feel power, and glory, and life in my veins, I feel ill with this malice I feel wise to their games And I am eating the notebook, I am eating the man, I am eating the lovers, I am eating the hands, I am eating the wrongs, and I am eating the cold, drinking ill inspiration and illuminating hope I am full of intention, I am full of perception, I am afraid I am a flicker, of a flame that grows wild, in a dream, in a head, of an awakening child An Awakening Child She clutches the blankets to her naked chest, trembling white hands in a grip that suggests a want for something still, in a quaking, upset world The dreams, the dreams, they tell her things, they are real, they are real They breathe everything she begs not to feel There is a man sitting up against an orange tree, a notebook, sitting in his lap, dripping wet and empty He shakes it in his hands, tosses it into the field, and its swallowed by the insects, and its eaten by the dirt He hunches forward to inspect the grave, a fire’s born beneath his fingers, scorches his hands, and his screams explain they are no more they are no more The handless man begins to sob, and his endless tears, they flood the field, and drowned him in his misery, his body by the orange tree A woman stands behind a curtain, her hand covering her blinded eyes Cries of betrayal beg to burst, She’s uncovering a life of lies She watches as the monster, makes love to a dress, the lips that confessed undying love, and with a kiss, he is possessed and she is suddenly screaming, as bodies aflame, lay claim to a future, a widow, a name I am afraid, I am a child, I am flicker of a flame that grows wild, it spreads and it eats all the forest, the green, and blinds first the eyes, to be done with what’s seen I am growing, expanding, hungry for bark, for the sunrise to fall, so I can dispel the dark I feel power, and glory, and life in my veins, I feel ill with this malice I feel wise to their games And I am eating the notebook, I am eating the man, I am eating the lovers, I am eating the hands, I am eating the wrongs, and I am eating the cold, drinking ill inspiration and illuminating hope I am full of intention, I am full of perception, I am afraid I am a flicker, of a flame that grows wild, in a dream, in a head, of an awakening child   I Am Here Now, More Than Ever Before She’s very disappointed But not in me And it’s the worst case of circumstances She’s ever seen And if she could, she would help but she sits there as helpless as I’ve come to be They don’t see me, I’m running but I’m not running away And if you notice I stumble but I’m here the next day And if it’s not disgust in your eyes, then it’s contempt, it’s frustration I’m not asking for friendship I’m asking for patience Everyday I am the best, I’m the best I can be And tomorrow I’m better When I get there, you’ll see And if you let me soon I’ll be at the height of my game The possibilities are endless But to begin, I remain My History In a little room above the stairs not eleven years ago I sat raking long fingers into thick threads and winding my ankle into a spiral channeling my contempt into circles on the floor There were voices above the poem calculating in my mind words fell over punctuation        and wrecked havoc on logic as I danced a wild oblivious dance in a stationary sprawl counting seconds on the floor Beneath me there was a story brewing what two children, and a house in the suburbs evolve into the things akin to evening news stories those moments you watch with detached indifference knowing you are far away from that infamy and even now some fourteen years later I weave the words around the voices as my ankle spirals in strong circles conducting this, my history AN ORANGE TREE She clutches the blankets to her naked chest, trembling white hands in a grip that suggests a want for something still, in a quaking, upset world The dreams, the dreams, they tell her things, they are real, they are real They breathe everything she begs not to feel There is a man sitting up against an orange tree, a notebook, sitting in his lap, dripping wet and empty He shakes it in his hands, tosses it into the field, and its swallowed by the insects, and its eaten by the dirt He hunches forward to inspect the grave, a fire’s born beneath his fingers, scorches his hands, and his screams explain they are no more they are no more The handless man begins to sob, and his endless tears, they flood the field, and drowned him in his misery, his body by the orange tree A woman stands behind a curtain, her hand covering her blinded eyes Cries of betrayal beg to burst, She’s uncovering a life of lies She watches as the monster, makes love to a dress, the lips that confessed undying love, and with a kiss, he is possessed and she is suddenly screaming, as bodies aflame, lay claim to a future, a widow, a name I am afraid, I am a child, I am flicker of a flame that grows wild, it spreads and it eats all the forest, the green, and blinds first the eyes, to be done with what’s seen I am growing, expanding, hungry for bark, for the sunrise to fall, so I can dispel the dark I feel power, and glory, and life in my veins, I feel ill with this malice I feel wise to their games And I am eating the notebook, I am eating the man, I am eating the lovers, I am eating the hands, I am eating the wrongs, and I am eating the cold, drinking ill inspiration and illuminating hope I am full of intention, I am full of perception, I am afraid I am a flicker, of a flame that grows wild, in a dream, in a head, of an awakening child My History In a little room above the stairs not eleven years ago I sat raking long fingers into thick threads and winding my ankle into a spiral channeling my contempt into circles on the floor There were voices above the poem calculating in my mind words fell over punctuation        and wrecked havoc on logic as I danced a wild oblivious dance in a stationary sprawl counting seconds on the floor Beneath me there was a story brewing what two children, and a house in the suburbs evolve into the things akin to evening news stories those moments you watch with detached indifference knowing you are far away from that infamy and even now some fourteen years later I weave the words around the voices as my ankle spirals in strong circles conducting this, my history AN ORANGE TREE She clutches the blankets to her naked chest, trembling white hands in a grip that suggests a want for something still, in a quaking, upset world The dreams, the dreams, they tell her things, they are real, they are real They breathe everything she begs not to feel There is a man sitting up against an orange tree, a notebook, sitting in his lap, dripping wet and empty He shakes it in his hands, tosses it into the field, and its swallowed by the insects, and its eaten by the dirt He hunches forward to inspect the grave, a fire’s born beneath his fingers, scorches his hands, and his screams explain they are no more they are no more The handless man begins to sob, and his endless tears, they flood the field, and drowned him in his misery, his body by the orange tree A woman stands behind a curtain, her hand covering her blinded eyes Cries of betrayal beg to burst, She’s uncovering a life of lies She watches as the monster, makes love to a dress, the lips that confessed undying love, and with a kiss, he is possessed and she is suddenly screaming, as bodies aflame, lay claim to a future, a widow, a name I am afraid, I am a child, I am flicker of a flame that grows wild, it spreads and it eats all the forest, the green, and blinds first the eyes, to be done with what’s seen I am growing, expanding, hungry for bark, for the sunrise to fall, so I can dispel the dark I feel power, and glory, and life in my veins, I feel ill with this malice I feel wise to their games And I am eating the notebook, I am eating the man, I am eating the lovers, I am eating the hands, I am eating the wrongs, and I am eating the cold, drinking ill inspiration and illuminating hope I am full of intention, I am full of perception, I am afraid I am a flicker, of a flame that grows wild, in a dream, in a head, of an awakening child A Moral Obligation Let me tell you a story the man in white robes tries to attract your moral attention spans with what we’d like to believe are lies He points out a woman in the pews and takes note of her exposed skin a pendulum of low self-esteem and an interesting place to begin “See here my children, take a look, at the wrong way to be, a wanton slave to approval an example of inadequacy.” In outrage the woman exits leaving behind the polite conservatives, who cover their lips in a mockery of gossip celibacy He points next the accusing finger, at the man beside his podium, “See here my children, a man of lust” that the crowd heard with gasps of disgust “My eyes escape to an early grave, to spare the sight of his noble maid.” In defiance rose from the bench and men made eyes at the worthy wench She too, departs “Next we have the defiant son, who picks the faults of everyone” he hurries off the silent stage, and returns with the boy, to howls of rage “Tell them what you told your old man, about how you can what no one can.” And the boy opens his mouth to bother, but is dragged off stage by a livid father “Onward then? Alright–you sir!” A man exiting stops and turns, “Can not afford to hear the truth? Or don’t want these men to know what you do?” There is a moment rife with wonder, the leaving man is struck with fear, his anxious feet, they make to run, and as a result, we hear the cries of everyone “Let him leave!” yells the preacher, his voice magnified by the loud speaker, “he’s done enough sitting to feel envy for the living maybe he’ll make it to the courthouse to file for that divorce now” “Look closely, the examples of low self-esteem, cowardice and lust, these are the men who in god trust, and haven’t we had just about enough, of this facade?” “Is this what we call repentance, for our humane traits of normalcy? Or is this a way to forget, and pay for our indulgence in hypocrisy?” And one by one we feel the heat, the blush of a crowd of god-fearing men, who’s only hope is in the book, that dictates a life they can not respect “This concludes our daily delusion, please bless yourselves on your way out, Or donate wages to save your souls, after all, that is what this is all about.” A Moral Obligation Let me tell you a story the man in white robes tries to attract your moral attention spans with what we’d like to believe are lies He points out a woman in the pews and takes note of her exposed skin a pendulum of low self-esteem and an interesting place to begin “See here my children, take a look, at the wrong way to be, a wanton slave to approval an example of inadequacy.” In outrage the woman exits leaving behind the polite conservatives, who cover their lips in a mockery of gossip celibacy He points next the accusing finger, at the man beside his podium, “See here my children, a man of lust” that the crowd heard with gasps of disgust “My eyes escape to an early grave, to spare the sight of his noble maid.” In defiance rose from the bench and men made eyes at the worthy wench She too, departs “Next we have the defiant son, who picks the faults of everyone” he hurries off the silent stage, and returns with the boy, to howls of rage “Tell them what you told your old man, about how you can what no one can.” And the boy opens his mouth to bother, but is dragged off stage by a livid father “Onward then? Alright–you sir!” A man exiting stops and turns, “Can not afford to hear the truth? Or don’t want these men to know what you do?” There is a moment rife with wonder, the leaving man is struck with fear, his anxious feet, they make to run, and as a result, we hear the cries of everyone “Let him leave!” yells the preacher, his voice magnified by the loud speaker, “he’s done enough sitting to feel envy for the living maybe he’ll make it to the courthouse to file for that divorce now” “Look closely, the examples of low self-esteem, cowardice and lust, these are the men who in god trust, and haven’t we had just about enough, of this facade?” “Is this what we call repentance, for our humane traits of normalcy? Or is this a way to forget, and pay for our indulgence in hypocrisy?” And one by one we feel the heat, the blush of a crowd of god-fearing men, who’s only hope is in the book, that dictates a life they can not respect “This concludes our daily delusion, please bless yourselves on your way out, Or donate wages to save your souls, after all, that is what this is all about.” In Which We Remember that an Open Mind Often Leaves Room For One To Shut Up I’m hanging on a cross, blood dripping off my palms, arms tied up straight and taught, and all continence forgot Its not the best day of my life, but judging by your eyes, you’d never know otherwise A moment for the textbooks kids, take notes on all the things I did, all this skin is sin, just sin so what if its how we begin? See the words I scream are vulgar, only when I’m up in the crowd, above the men who look up at me, and still claim they’re looking down Look away women, your eyes are to simple to see, what a portrayal of belief, the welcome given to me Tie me up and let me bleed, make a prophet out of me, so what if I’m just a man, tell the world I did what no one can So I spoke my mind He thinks, cringing, the price we pay for internal dialogue caging Portrait of A Stranger You’re so quiet, undisturbed and unconvinced an argument on why you should live the life you live Stare at the broken window, and never through, a one-tracked mind that always asks why, but never who You see the glass, the dirt and the grime, You stare at the clock, but still can’t tell time How long can an impersonal life fight the insane, wonders the girl with no past and no name Who will deliver the baby in the night, battle the cold with the sheets wrapped tight, live off of the food that’s not enough to fill, and eye for an eye, and a license to kill Knowledge is the sin of the mind, she’d practiced the religion of a tangible kind, The kid that made men into God’s, a science of people, a numerical bible, Fact: even, Faith: odd, Runs down an empty corridor, holding pages that burn her hands, and escapes to the insecurity of never knowing where she’s flying, or where she’ll land Its not love, but it’s a bed, and so she dreams of that instead, hands they roam, and words stay trapped in her chest, she holds them back He lifts her dirty chin in his dirty hands, tries to analyze the life she sacrifices stability to forget, She’d turn her face and distract with those eyes that suggests a caged woman, behind the bars she, herself, set "Would you ever tell me?" And she would always shake her head. As It Is I have this ridiculous dream Where nothing is at is I have this ridiculous vision of seeing things, out from beneath a cloth of cover, a blanket of comfort I have this overwhelming need, to set things straight with god, and you, I have this overwhelming need, to break dishes, and send the pieces with one last punch of spite, straight into your chest I have this tired revolving mantra, do not fail, you can succeed, you have before I have this tired revolving mantra, breathe in, breathe out, and the sun will rise on its own I have this sick determination, to not fall victim, to not fall for anything I have this sick determination to be whoever I am that is clawing at the inside of my skin knowing porcelain shades of white I have this sorrow inducing hunger, that keeps me awake at night, and like a child without water, I call out, but no one comes I have this hope that the world will open up and Swallow me whole, spit me out a new girl, in a place where nothing is as it is and I am only who I am, who I am not afraid to be, and there you stand, and we shake hands as yesterday drips down beneath your heart onto greener grass The First What man first wrote about love, what came first? The concept or the creation? Did ink manifest what became civilization? Was divine intervention a mind’s entertainment? Or were we dreaming for an explanation for where life went after the breath went? What man holds copyright for the kiss that lasted a thousand suns? or laid claim to the theory that we weren’t the only ones? What woman discovered the power to seduce men? Who created marriage, and who ever said it could end? Who created consequence of hell and salvation? Why does the world choose to fall victim to nature’s devastation? Who gave birth to the world, and to the first child? Why didn’t they watch over each other, instead of watch as each other grew wild? We could have taken care of each other, we could have been more aware of each other. Who will stroke the grass as the sky cries? Who will braid the hair of the girl as she tells stories? Who will plant the tree’s after the storm comes? Who will provide air for the tired lungs? Who will sing poetry to the dying forests, to the poisoned lakes, to the empty homes, and the crying children? Who will make love to the broken men, to the wilting gardens, to the warming waters? Who will dream of change and tomorrow, create explanation for why we deserve to live here, in such generous opportunity? In Which We Remember that an Open Mind Often Leaves Room For One To Shut Up I’m hanging on a cross, blood dripping off my palms, arms tied up straight and taught, and all continence forgot Its not the best day of my life, but judging by your eyes, you’d never know otherwise A moment for the textbooks kids, take notes on all the things I did, all this skin is sin, just sin so what if its how we begin? See the words I scream are vulgar, only when I’m up in the crowd, above the men who look up at me, and still claim they’re looking down Look away women, your eyes are to simple to see, what a portrayal of belief, the welcome given to me Tie me up and let me bleed, make a prophet out of me, so what if I’m just a man, tell the world I did what no one can So I spoke my mind He thinks, cringing, the price we pay for internal dialogue caging Portrait of A Stranger You’re so quiet, undisturbed and unconvinced an argument on why you should live the life you live Stare at the broken window, and never through, a one-tracked mind that always asks why, but never who You see the glass, the dirt and the grime, You stare at the clock, but still can’t tell time How long can an impersonal life fight the insane, wonders the girl with no past and no name Who will deliver the baby in the night, battle the cold with the sheets wrapped tight, live off of the food that’s not enough to fill, and eye for an eye, and a license to kill Knowledge is the sin of the mind, she’d practiced the religion of a tangible kind, The kid that made men into God’s, a science of people, a numerical bible, Fact: even, Faith: odd, Runs down an empty corridor, holding pages that burn her hands, and escapes to the insecurity of never knowing where she’s flying, or where she’ll land Its not love, but it’s a bed, and so she dreams of that instead, hands they roam, and words stay trapped in her chest, she holds them back He lifts her dirty chin in his dirty hands, tries to analyze the life she sacrifices stability to forget, She’d turn her face and distract with those eyes that suggests a caged woman, behind the bars she, herself, set "Would you ever tell me?" And she would always shake her head. As It Is I have this ridiculous dream Where nothing is at is I have this ridiculous vision of seeing things, out from beneath a cloth of cover, a blanket of comfort I have this overwhelming need, to set things straight with god, and you, I have this overwhelming need, to break dishes, and send the pieces with one last punch of spite, straight into your chest I have this tired revolving mantra, do not fail, you can succeed, you have before I have this tired revolving mantra, breathe in, breathe out, and the sun will rise on its own I have this sick determination, to not fall victim, to not fall for anything I have this sick determination to be whoever I am that is clawing at the inside of my skin knowing porcelain shades of white I have this sorrow inducing hunger, that keeps me awake at night, and like a child without water, I call out, but no one comes I have this hope that the world will open up and Swallow me whole, spit me out a new girl, in a place where nothing is as it is and I am only who I am, who I am not afraid to be, and there you stand, and we shake hands as yesterday drips down beneath your heart onto greener grass The First What man first wrote about love, what came first? The concept or the creation? Did ink manifest what became civilization? Was divine intervention a mind’s entertainment? Or were we dreaming for an explanation for where life went after the breath went? What man holds copyright for the kiss that lasted a thousand suns? or laid claim to the theory that we weren’t the only ones? What woman discovered the power to seduce men? Who created marriage, and who ever said it could end? Who created consequence of hell and salvation? Why does the world choose to fall victim to nature’s devastation? Who gave birth to the world, and to the first child? Why didn’t they watch over each other, instead of watch as each other grew wild? We could have taken care of each other, we could have been more aware of each other. Who will stroke the grass as the sky cries? Who will braid the hair of the girl as she tells stories? Who will plant the tree’s after the storm comes? Who will provide air for the tired lungs? Who will sing poetry to the dying forests, to the poisoned lakes, to the empty homes, and the crying children? Who will make love to the broken men, to the wilting gardens, to the warming waters? Who will dream of change and tomorrow, create explanation for why we deserve to live here, in such generous opportunity? Children grow up. The children play their Innocent games of hide and seek, Beneath blankets and in closets, Silent till the footsteps pass Children grow and hide their faces, In creme colored powder, in red lips, In the classroom, praying quiet, Silent till the hands are down Become adults, slamming hands, on paper clad desks, making demands, beneath blankets, and coming out of closets and with it silence, became a thing of the past What we do A painter takes his brush, soaks up all the grey, covers the abysmal world, with a shade that makes everyone the same A writer shouts over the cries of the hungry, the brokenhearted, the dead, her words of heroic triumph, her hope for a better world instead A teacher slips subliminal lessons, into the unknowing, unprepared minds of the future A mother cradles her child, so the tears stop, so the fears cease, she will rock the ill from the infant, and silence is their lullaby A father throws the future up against the wall, trying to succeed the past. A president leads the armed forces, into the wild, a city of people, woman, children, farmers, who did little but grow corn, and carry children on their hips With weapons drawn they shoot, their misplaced, facade of loyalty A student swallows knowledge, like a starving daughter, sips the words of the lake of intelligence, hoping to exude, to glow, to illuminate everything dark in her past Clean White Sheets Bit my lip from things I want to say Lock my tongue in place and all my words away Down a river of my tears unabsorbed, and unabashed On clean white sheets, in afternoon There’s nothing I can say, so these pages fail me, A bitter realization, when nothing else scares me When your hand hits wood on my home life I know things can never be alright If I were to fight you, it would be the only thing I could do I chose to ignore you, I tried, but you still broke through, If I were to feel the quiet, I would wait on quaking feet, For the floor to defy me It’s all I’ve ever known is true A quiet life, is unheard of And I often wish deaf would wash these corrupted sounds, these songs of rage Strung with resentment is the arrow of my ways, Down deserted corridors, in the dead of day, I’ve filled these books up with the writing, they no longer have a reason To stay unseen You will not hear from me, For the quiet that I so seek, Is found only when I do not speak, I do not speak, Let these words trail on in silence, unabsorbed, and unabashed On clean white sheets, in afternoon Children grow up. The children play their Innocent games of hide and seek, Beneath blankets and in closets, Silent till the footsteps pass Children grow and hide their faces, In creme colored powder, in red lips, In the classroom, praying quiet, Silent till the hands are down Become adults, slamming hands, on paper clad desks, making demands, beneath blankets, and coming out of closets and with it silence, became a thing of the past What we do A painter takes his brush, soaks up all the grey, covers the abysmal world, with a shade that makes everyone the same A writer shouts over the cries of the hungry, the brokenhearted, the dead, her words of heroic triumph, her hope for a better world instead A teacher slips subliminal lessons, into the unknowing, unprepared minds of the future A mother cradles her child, so the tears stop, so the fears cease, she will rock the ill from the infant, and silence is their lullaby A father throws the future up against the wall, trying to succeed the past. A president leads the armed forces, into the wild, a city of people, woman, children, farmers, who did little but grow corn, and carry children on their hips With weapons drawn they shoot, their misplaced, facade of loyalty A student swallows knowledge, like a starving daughter, sips the words of the lake of intelligence, hoping to exude, to glow, to illuminate everything dark in her past Clean White Sheets Bit my lip from things I want to say Lock my tongue in place and all my words away Down a river of my tears unabsorbed, and unabashed On clean white sheets, in afternoon There’s nothing I can say, so these pages fail me, A bitter realization, when nothing else scares me When your hand hits wood on my home life I know things can never be alright If I were to fight you, it would be the only thing I could do I chose to ignore you, I tried, but you still broke through, If I were to feel the quiet, I would wait on quaking feet, For the floor to defy me It’s all I’ve ever known is true A quiet life, is unheard of And I often wish deaf would wash these corrupted sounds, these songs of rage Strung with resentment is the arrow of my ways, Down deserted corridors, in the dead of day, I’ve filled these books up with the writing, they no longer have a reason To stay unseen You will not hear from me, For the quiet that I so seek, Is found only when I do not speak, I do not speak, Let these words trail on in silence, unabsorbed, and unabashed On clean white sheets, in afternoon