I am the way a forgotten lover breaks
Too blind to bow out grace(fully)

( Please.. sw(allow) me (to be) whole )

Beneath crumbling walls
Carved in this dying p(art) of me
I travel the length of a universe in his eyes
Falling on shattered remnants of my masochistic daydreams

Be still my bleeding heart
Time will cease its motion
As his voice echos through scarring frequencies in my mind
Searing himself into my subconscious

I am an origami spirit
The broken paper doll
(Submissive) in his hands

everyone thinks that i should be sad today is the annivaersary of my fthers death
my secret: the only good thing that manever did for me is die

YOU got :

our house
the car

the dog
our kids


our friends
the neighbors


our bank account
the pictures of US (with me cut out) 

I  got :

our Faith in Forever
the Love that tied us together
our Faithful-Eternal-Loyalty
that fairytale "thing" they call happily-ever-after


the promise
our sworn marital vowes
-to have and to hold
 for better or worse
 in sickness and in health
-to love YOU ...and no one else
the comittment, that you were more than enough for me




but,
it seems i was the only one who felt this way




I don't have the energy or strength left
to list ALL that I lost

on that day
 

when ....I walked in to watch you loving someone else

IN our HOUSE

IN our BED

you BROKE my HEART

you STOLE my SOUL

YOU took MY life

YOU left ME dead ....but, that's what I get ....for : thinking
dreaming
wanting
needing
wishing
waiting
trusting
believing
loving
feeling
breaking
bleeding
crying
praying
living
and dying

this..... is what I got..... for:


             loving YOU 


the way I DO 
. . . . s t i l l

It’s dark out
And these clouds are spelling out disaster
And the winds are chasing off any hopes I once had of being black and white about this.
And the rain has made these inked sentiments run and fade
Like badly tattooed memoirs across what once was a heart of stone.

It’s hard to speak when you have no voice,
Mutated vocal chords have long since been laid to waste,
Warped and hollowed by so many stifled sobs and gasps for air.

(and your words are the sharpest blades I’ve ever seen)

My heart is tearing, and I’m a glutton for punishment,
A junkie, if you will, tripping off of whispered reassurances and empty smiles.
Please,
Paint me something beautiful
These frosted panes are starting to show again, and the lies are fading too fast for me to hide my eyes.

And the waves are stealing my pretty rainbows
Colored with indecision and regret faster then I can paint them across these crumbling thresholds
Littered with burnt pages and ashen hopes
And a drop or two of whispered what ifs and what could have been…

Call me love. [Or Misery,]
Because I’m always looking for company.

Color me pretty
The way that you see me but not
The way I see myself

Wash me pure
The way you look at me
With eyes of unconditional love
You overlook my indiscretions
Judgment you never pass
Acceptance is all you offer
making me a better me

Dream me in black and white
Like old time photographs
Faded
Torn edges
Jagged with time
To preserve the image that you hold of me

Paint me in red
The sweet blood that I left behind
Etching my name in the grain of eternity
So as to never be forgotten

Burn me into ashes
Let me dance on the winds of tomorrow
To feel the freedom
The release from my personal hell
As I soar across the sky of time

a warriors blood runs thru my veins
a long line a of fighters and doers
but me i am not a warrior i am a thinker
i am a poet
a fact which irrates my mother every day
because when she told me i could be  anything i wanted
she ment a doctor or a lawyer she didnt mean a poet
she fails to realize i can do far more with my words that
"our people" could ever do with their fists and fear
i am a new kind of warrior i fight without lifting a finger
i fight the war of words and i almost always win
except when its the fight that matters the one with
my warrior family beacause no matter what i do
my words are not enough

If you've never been loved by a poet,
you really ought to try it.
They love with an excessive tendency to beauty
and an obsessive attention to detail.

A poet will always remember
the exact shade of your eyes,
birthdays, anniversaries,
and the way your face looked in the moonlight,

and anyone who harbors that much passion
for a particular type of paper and pen
is probably pretty good in bed.

Best of all, when you are through
with being written about
and have started cruising Adult Literacy meetings,
you don't have to feel guilty -

she'll just switch to sadder poems,
and when that's done, why,
she might just put her head in the oven,
considerately leaving you with a good story to tell other women.

Yes, if you've never been loved by a poet,
you really ought to try it.

used up i am fresh out of affection
i dont know how to love anything but you
happy well adjusted girls dont cry themselves to sleep at night
but i dont know anybody who's happy let alone well adjusted
theres is not a single part of me not directly connected to you
trying to untangle pieces of soemthing that was never whole
I would brave the unknown for you
transend time and space for you
but i just cant seem to make over this wall
in this cell of my own making
i have nothing to do put point the finger
i didnt say it was your fault i said i was blameing you

I could have been something great
instead i became yours
stuffed into what you wanted if me
is like being shoved in a pair of shoes much to small
i forgot what i was for you
gave over all of me to you
i could be a better me with a better you
if you didnt already think you were perfect
yeah i couuld have been something great
but instead i am yours