Home

Last night I felt like I was
home.
My eyes were closed and warm
foreboding sleep
and rain met sidewalk
like the thud of a pillow.
The room was thick with darkness
and silent, save the soft fall
outside of my window.
I started to drift,
my body swaying between
sleep and cognizance
and I thought I was home.

I wear my heart on my sleeve,
outermost layer
Exposed shine or
impaling rain.
I don't expect much
I just
need
you
to want
me.
Gratify me
take me from the corner
(nobody puts baby there)
and put me on your
pedestal.
Make me feel
special,
like I
mean something,
matter.

I am a leaky faucet
taste the salt on my
lips.
Listen to the
soft and sad
vibrato
of my
bleeding heartstrings.
I am sick to my stomach
with
angst induced nausuea.
Just reach in and
rip it out,
I am better off
without it.

The Line's Break

You are bold-type face
jump.
You twist, turn,
curl in a
sadistic macabre
frolic.

You are
significant,important.
You are
intelligent design, sent
to pen from frontal
lobe.

You are
The Intended;
Married to the page, making
love to line after
sweet line.

Your body bends in schematic
dexterity.
Your heart pounds,
Trying to escape
your rib
cage. Beat
beat beat, creating
rhythm, thumping
furiously.

Your hands reach to
sky, grasping expertly
for a tangible climax.

At the end of your
consummation, you fall
dead, in
aesthetic grace.

Autumn

I. I am the
Girl Who Dances in Rain.

I am not graceful
I am no ballerina
As I gulp and absorb

I am just one
twirling and falling and soaking
drenched in cool autumn rain
I am just at peace with the water gods.

II. I am falling down
in slow motion,
in a fuzzy daydream.
I twirl, my body spins 'til I hit pavement.
I am one with red yellow orange
I am one with leaves,
dancing, floating.
I am falling down,
I am detached from home
I do not gasp or try to hold on,
I am a free spirit
I am alone
I drift in and out of being.
My body drifts.

Writing Poetry

Sometimes i feel like
writing poetry,
like being important for
a few moments as
I
create
Art.
I want to escape
angry words
bad drivers
long, crowded hallways.
I want to become
one
with wet streets
sinewy trees
and my thesaurus.
I sit
I pretend
that I am a poet
a creative artsy beatnik
in a beret and thick eyeliner.
But I am just a little girl
in blue jeans and loafers.
But sometimes
I feel like writing poetry.

Insomnia

Why am i up to greet the sun?
Sleep is foreign,
folklore that I vaguely remember.
The sky is cold blue
and the ground is frozen and covered
by a veil of falling snow.
I am sitting in the dark of the room
the sun
blocked by clouds
meekly slips between venetian blinds
but all in vain;
the room is still a cave,
a den of lethargy and evaded sleep.
Maybe tomorrow it will be easier
to slumber,
when you are gone
for good and my mind can
stop spinning.
Or maybe next week.

Where I'm From/Who I Am

I am from puddle jumping
and umbrella hopping.
I am from running through
the rain,
drops kissing my face and hair.

I am from Pioneer Square,
running to Starbucks as we wait
for the tree to be lit.
I am from MAX and good friends,
traveling towards obscure
shops, waiting to be found.

I am from Hawthorne and Belmont,
in search of used clothes and videos,
New York style bagels and
Beautiful pizza.

I am from the murky depths
of the beautiful brown Willamette,
decorated with spoiled diapers and
hazardous salmon.

I am from j-walkers and roadkill,
from hippies and hipsters-
I am from Portland.