Title

I don't want to be loved anymore.
I don't want to expect anything from anyone.
I figure if you don't expect anything, you won't be let down by them.
You're heart won't wait, and sink.
And you will be happy when they actually do come through,
more than you would if it were expected.
I don't want to talk about how unhappy I feel sometimes
Or that I cry to myself
Because it will only drive them away
But I find myself in that room all the time
The waiting room where I wait for my name to be called
When the people who are my priority see me as a priority as well
But it doesn't happen a lot
Seemingly less and less.
It makes me want to just disappear all together.
I just want to disappear.

Last Night's Dream

"I don't think your horrible, I don't think you're great, and that will make you incredible."

As long as I can dream it

If I'm upset and crying,
he comes to me.
Looks at me, at first worried, then smiles
His fingers brush my tears away
He slowly pulls me into his chest so I can cry into it
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
I make an excuse.
He silences it with, "I love you"
Until finally I tell him I love him too.
Always...

I dream of a superhero.
One who is indestructable to my ammunition.
One who can break down my armor.
Who gives me strength.
Never tires.
Never gives up.

Something inhuman.

I sometimes wish you were inhuman so I wouldn't hurt you so much.
Delicate humanity, balanced on a pinpoint.

Be my hero. Even though I don't deserve it.

Kansas

Imagine Dorothy. She clicks her ruby red shoes, wishing to return to Kansas.
She closes her eyes tightly, inhales, and anticipates the tornado.
But, nothing happens.
She clicks and wishes.
She clicks and prays.
She clicks and begs.
She clicks and cries.
This time, the only change is that the road beneath her has crumbled,
and everything she knows is rearranged.
What must Dorothy feel like as her legs gave out on the pavement?
How was it to toss the ruby shoes aside?

To know what it feels like to watch the bridge
between yourself and home break apart
between yourself and your normality
between yourself and your love
between yourself and what you could be
...all fall apart, and you are staring of the reflection of that life

If only we all had magic shoes

The Wind

Oh, how I love the wind
It promised me to tie the moon on its back
Carried softly on the back of the drawing black waves
White foam, pearl tears of warmth
It unearthed even the Earth itself
Shaking mountains, uprooting the Great Tree
Our own religion, my own prayer
The same prayer that disturbs the leaves
It promised me to bait the stars to feed fire from my hand
Of psalms and melodies;
to which is met with only melodious short breaths paused
by black wave whimpers
Rain wiped washed away by the moon
The very moon of which was promised
It is only my hands that meet the flesh
And the tree's weight falls eagerly on my back
pulled by gravity
Beckoned by reality
To find that my arms are filled with lightness
Makes them grow only heavier
Makes my body sink

The leaves are no longer restless
There is nothing

It all comes to green

I've wanted to write this one for awhile.

Contemplate this idea: the dollar. I clutch it in my hand, rub my thumb and index finger around it while I wait. It's musky; it's dirty. Funny how I don't like this one, I'd rather have a new crisp dollar that feels better. One that is cleaner, so I am cleaner too. And as I think about this, the man clears his throat and extends his hand, which is holding my coffee, further out and towards me. His mouth, which is surrounded by a rugged and unshaven beard, twitches while his eyes droop down at my thumb and index finger and musky dollar. I exchange my dollar for a coffee, a nod, and a half hearted smile. It is cold outside. It is December. And the lights are out. And just like that the dollar has become someone else. It is no longer me, nor my predecessor of which I cannot name. I cannot name... that's just the thing. We, as humans, share money more than humanity. It passes through us, is us, and moves on. It is the fifty dollars in the hand of an immigrant searching for freedom used to purchase food at a grocery store, where a father is suffering from cancer and paying for his child's college tuition, paid to an institution which is donated to a charity to pay for the clothes for the homeless... What a journey the dollar goes through. And yet, it seems so insignificant. Have you ever thought of where it's been? Of the man, woman, or child who had it before you. In a wallet filled with pictures of people you've never met. It's extrordinary how intimately it connects us. Because it is an involuntary connection. The more money you have, the more lives you've taken. Stories carried upon the back of millionaires. Little do I know if that man with the unshaven beard and tired eyes goes home every night and works for the almighty dollar just so he can kiss his children while they sleep at night. People can be quite extrordinary things. They have strength.