Every story has a leading lady-
A fearless heroine,
A clever femme fatale.
But this one has none.
Just a girl with a dream,
But too many cares to ever be free.
Constantly cast aside
But at the ready when someone is in need.
The sinner among the saints
For their entertainment.
A quick mind and a steady wit,
She’s the first to produce a laugh and fall
For the sake of it.
She’s his go to for a quick stretch,
His favorite companion in the dark.
But as he sleeps,
She dreams about being drawn out into the light.
The life of her own party,
She’s left out when the celebration rolls around.
So she sits alone and waits for the day
Someone will finally say,
“That’s my girl.”

I saw him in CVS one day and knew immediately that
He needed me.
His eyes called to me like a lonely corpse
In an unmarked grave.
I paid far less than he was worth.
I listened to him speak in the arena of
My private Hell
As he recited a gospel of hope and despair so true
I nearly bled.
As he went on,
it was as if he was at my side
Showing me salvation can be had.
I hugged him so tight that the pages folded and bent
Like the edges of my heart.
His words dripped down from
My tears.
Crumbled in a ball on the floor,
these pages made me realize
It wasn’t just me,

I am in a delicate place,
Stuck walking a line between
Fantasy and reality.
I battle what I think we are
And what we really are.
I’d love to believe that we are all right but
Past experience tells me otherwise.
So now I’m trapped,
Wondering about you and I.
I don’t know if you really care for me or
This is all made up in my head.
Paranoia is bad but
Make-believe is worse.
That false reality that you can touch and see.
So I tried to give you space because
I know you are scared because you are scarred
But the distance between
Us kills me inside.
My heart aches because I’m terrified that soon
There will only be one party left in
You and I.
And yet,
You are always there to help me up when
I hurt myself jumping to conclusions.
You kiss all of my cuts and bruises,
Wipe the blood away and you tell me,
“Hold onto hope because
It is alive.”
I can’t promise that I won’t jump
And stumble again,
But I’ll do the best I can and
Sit and watch the world go by with you
And take life as it comes-
One step at a time.

Working Class hero

Image  —  Posted: March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized
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Long Time Gone

Image  —  Posted: March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized
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Image  —  Posted: March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized
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I hate how the world tells us that
We must grow up.
Before we can finish our youth,
We have to bare the weight of the world
With poise, and maturity.
They say it comes with age,
But don’t they know,
Acting our age only kills us faster?
We can prove the world wrong
If you run away with me.
We’ll pack our suitcases in the night
Take what little cash we have and
We’ll cover the town in the dust from your tires
As you rev the engine and speed away into the night
And never look back.
We’ll forget our age and where we came from.
When our cash runs out
We can max out our credit cards because
They’ll never catch us, anyway.
And when that runs out,
We’ll run to Atlantic City to
Amass a fortune counting cards or playing slot machines,
Depending on how lucky we feel.
We can even dip our toes into the sand for a little while
And watch the sunrise.
But we can’t stay too long,
Because that’s when roots form,
And then that’s when you start to grow old.
So let’s run quick
So we can live like Fun
And set the world on fire
And be young forever.

I’ve never liked following rules.
I run circles around society and its conventions.
I’m odd, loud mouthed, and fast-paced.
No lover could ever keep up with me.
To them, I was like a shiny new puzzle:
Fun and interesting for a short while,
Until they realized I was too difficult to tie down and tame,
So my appeal and lust quickly waned.
It was for that reason I was content to live a solitary life.
After all, love had only tried to ever confine me.
I was no damsel in distress,
No fair lady.
No prince need apply,
No savior needed.
Then I met the man that could run alongside my marathon mind,
and held my hand so we both could jump all over societal lines.
He was not my knight in shining armor.
His silver was rusted, tattered and worn.
He worth had been tested,
And yet, he still stood.
Together, we broke the rules of love and built something stronger.
He is my strength, my hope, my drive,
But, most importantly,
My partner in crime.
Who needs rules when you have each other?

At my age you would think that
I would have acquired enough vocabulary to be able to describe the happiness you make me feel.
There are literally hundreds of thousands of words and word combinations in the English language,
you would think at least one would set my inspiration off.
Instead, I’m stuck here
sitting at my desk staring at a blank page.
It is moments like these where I love to hate Billy Joel.
Not only can he eloquently express his emotions in words,
he can sing them too.
I can’t even begin to find the words to describe you and me.
God gave him all that talent,
why couldn’t some be spared for me?
Sometimes I think Billy understands us better than I do.
He knows how elated you make me feel,
and that this feeling hasn’t happened for the longest time.
He understands all the love, anger, nerves and anticipation that comes
with feeling this way.
He never gets it wrong, either.
Maybe it’s because he’s seen the world,
and has met all sorts of people.
Maybe dealing with the stage fright and constant change of scenery has
made him immune to this uninspired blank stare I have.
Or maybe he is just simply smarter than me.
Maybe one day I’ll be as wise as Billy
and will finally get these words out of me.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to find a way to say that
you make me too joyous for the words I know,
and too nervous to discover new ones.
Until that day comes,
I’ll just spin around in my desk chair,
pen in hand,
and think of the love  you make me feel,
and know that at least Billy understands me.

Maybe Love

Posted: February 9, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , ,

The man I love is broken.
Life has taught him,
he is better off alone,
and that he should be tougher than he needs to be.
He is more handsome than a dream,
but more stern than anyone I have ever seen.
An angry old man in
twenty-two year old bones.
He wears a black Pea coat
bathed in the scent of cigarettes and cologne,
a gray t-shirt untucked from his faded and worn jeans,
and black steal-toed work boots.
A Parliament 100 is never far from his sight,
although he hardly seems to have a smile on hand.
I can see the loneliness in those beautiful brown eyes.
I wonder, though, if he is aware that
every time we are together,
that dark light just seems to disappear.
Sometimes it feels as if
our love is a clear path,
and we are only a few paces away from happiness.
Then we take a sudden turn,
and we are even farther behind square one.
And the same scene always plays:
He wipes away my tears with the tips of his fingers,
looks at me with those big brown eyes and whispers,
“Maybe one day.”
I nod and say, “I know. It’s okay,”
and leave.
But I’m lying again.
I wish I had the courage to be honest,
and to do what I really want to do.
To just cut an X over my heart,
dig in with a knife and show him
his name is branded there,
haunting me everywhere I go.
I just wish I could rip it out
and stomp it on the ground
until it is dead because,
deep down I know,
that promised “maybe” day may never come.
Then I go to sleep and I dream of him,
and all the sweet things he does for me.
I dream of being wrapped in that Pea coat and
those big brown eyes swearing that everything will be all right.
When I wake,
my hope is renewed because
maybe this is the day he will finally see
my love for him is true.
Just maybe.