[x]

a cliche.Sometimes my whole heart
just
aches.
It is pain
in its simplest,
most affecting form
and it is searing like a hot iron into my chest,
boiling the blood that flows into arteries,
which deliver that heat to every cell
until every part of me, and every fiber
that makes those parts,
aches with this
knowledge.

Shh.I just want to... "Shh."
But you never let me... "Shh."
I still keep screaming.

With the BirdsI want to say you're foolish
For thinking I will stay,
I want to say you're stupid
For ever acting this way.
But I can't look at you
And speak those words
Because I know
That they just aren't true.

You know i'll wait,
But please don't make me.
You know i'll behave,
But please don't break me.
I've waited so long for a chance.

You know I care—
Don't take advantage.
You know i'll be there
When you can't manage.
All i'm asking of you...
This one little favor,
After all we've been through—
Is to end the lie you have with her
And spend your time

With the birds.

Haiku #5 Hotondo hanaShe will never bloom.
Closed petals and no fragrance;
Cold flower in spring.

11.1.12 The wind whips around, following its many paths in a hurry, not caring whether anyone’s cold. But the sun shines down in a nearly cloudless sky, fighting to keep the temperature tolerable. We walk in odd directions, changing course almost as much as the indecisive wind. There’s something warm about you, about the childish way you smile when you know I’m looking at you. We are children, in these little moments. Both of us diving into each other, daring to show ourselves to new people.

We sit down, on a bench under a huge strangler tree, take in the lake in front of us, watch the people walk by. We talk about silly things,

a thought. For some people, librairies are like cathedrals. They are places to be safe in. I can sit surrounded by books and feel the same peace a Christian might feel in church. Nature can be the same. A bench by a lake is a place of refuge. A makeshift seat on a bridge in the woods is a place to enjoy the sun and think about life.
I have only been in church twice, never a synogogue or temple. But I don't understand them the way I understand the beauty of a quiet place. I respect the whisper of leaves and the hushed voices in a gallery. I appreciate rolling waves and shuffling feet, turning pages and soft music. These are things familiar

It's late.It's silly because
i'm home
wiping salt off my glasses,
(there were tears on them, I guess)
sitting down
for the first time in hours
(after packing and wrapping presents and cleaning.)
And i'm picturing you
in your new room
trying to sleep,
failing,
staring at the ceiling
and not seeing the fan in the center
(the old dusty fan I teased you about.)

I know you're out.
I know it's silly.
I know you're with her,
with your friends,
and it's me
staring up at the ceiling
(seeing things that aren't there.)

2011It was surreal, beautiful, maybe illegal.
But I know angels who have broken laws,
And take a look at their halos, they're brighter than ours.
I'm not God, and neither are you,
So how would we know what he'd have us do?

There is beauty in falling from your grace,
There's a thrill in leaving your safe space.
Go out now, and teach the stars to sing.
This is our way, these are life's finer things.
How are you to find them if you always hide,
Buried underneath like you've already died?

Go stare at the sun, and run through the halls.
Life is not worth living if you haven't seen it all.
Fly off to Spain, or to Moulin Rouge.
Set out to

why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
and yet
we still wonder why
we feel
so
alone.

ii.
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
because
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
like coins-
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place

iii.
(sometimes
i think,
loneliness is a disease
and
the world is infected.)

grandfatherold green shirt
inside leather jacket.
faded pants
over a pair of sneakers.
bonnet
above favorite shades.
brown wallet
chained to his pocket.
to this day,
i still keep
his silver watch
and ash tray.

i remember
his upset eyes
because i used
his bicycle once.

i remember
the disappointment
in later years
for i failed to live up
to expectations.

forgive me,
i'd rather
put together
memories this way:
he was a
cigarette-puffing,
wood-chopping,
banca-riding,
harmonica-playing,
transistor-listening,
flower-planting
bloke.
he lit firecrackers
with his mouth
through cigars.
he would pick
meat anytime
over fi

GrandfatherLancaster Pennsylvania.
July 3rd, 1978.
Five pm.
Eighty-two degrees outside.
Driving sixty eight mph down Millersville road
past miles of cornfields
And everything is silent.
Except the faint scream of wind escaping through the cracked driver side window
and the dull thud of tire treading on the newly paved road.
He is
trying to understand,
while trying not to think,
while thinking too much,
while being silent.
And suddenly its
March 1968
And Calley’s calling
“kill them all dead”.
And he sees his daughter,
with Agent Orange colored curls
clinging to her face like napalm sticks to melting bodies;
her eyes burning

The Man Who Carved IceThe man who carved ice was a mysterious soul.
He'd chisel fine shapes with a spoon and a bowl.
This humble tradesman needed no other tools
To carve blizzard blocks into frosted jewels.

The man was gentle to creatures all sizes
But silent as the dormouse who slumbers in houses.
He spoke not a word to human or beast;
Some say his voice froze from the ice he did eat.

The man carved in silence true masterpieces
While the world passed by to gawp his ice features:
Eiffel Tower, Stone Henge, a wild polar bear,
No shortage of talent did he have to spare.

The man was a wonder, a curious being:
He died of frostbite: cruel fate did its tea

He Doesn't Need to KnowHe doesn't know I love him.

I hide it in the places no one else knows;
sandwiched among the fondest of memories
thriving between my pores.
I am healed by it in the places unseen,
Bridging fissures in my soul and
Folding creases in my heart.
I protect it in cascades of moments,
Masquerades of silly smiles
and crooked grins.

I will share it once he knows
and I will thank him
for not knowing that I love him.

DionysusGasping, struggling to hold
the boundary between thought and being
I push
and cry as particles collide into
a hand
a foot
soon they will die
I scream into the macrocosm of
the void
and the people hear
in their sleep
waking in their own sweat-soaked beds
and grasp for my words
blurred in their minds
formed only on canvas
an epidural of ink and pigmentation
I push the prodigal child-
Dionysus is born.

the anti-gapThere is a time machine
on the side of her nose.
She keeps it secret
because it is dangerous.
As she spits blood into the sink
she wonders

"how did I get here?"

The room echoes
with no answer at all.
The walls don't care
about her secrets.
They just want
to connect with ceilings
and floors.

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Submitted: November 2, 2012
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11.3.12

by ~samanthakayla, Nov 2, 2012, 10:29:43 PM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Visual & Found Poetry

I write best
When I’m undressed,
When there’s no part of me compressed—

With glasses perched upon my nose
But no socks to cover my toes,
No more blouse buttoned too tight
Because words always fit just right,
No skirt zipped up to my waist,
My ideas just fall into place,
No belt or scarf to weigh me down,
Instead let memories wrap around.

When words can brush across my skin,
There’s no need for clothes to be in.

11.3.12by ~samanthakayla

Literature / Poetry / Humor / Visual & Found Poetry

~winterkate Feb 10, 2013 Student Writer

I actually do this too.

~samanthakayla Feb 10, 2013 General Artist

So i'm not crazy! (x

~winterkate Feb 12, 2013 Student Writer

Nope - far from it!

=MajorasMasks Dec 22, 2012 Professional Artisan Crafter

Nice! I liked it so much that I wished it was a bit longer, thought.

~samanthakayla Dec 23, 2012 General Artist

I wrote it after I had been thinking about writing it for a while. A couple stanzas got lost. Thanks though (:

=MajorasMasks Dec 23, 2012 Professional Artisan Crafter

I see. It's a good poem anyway.

~TheMoorMaiden Nov 14, 2012 Student Writer

Well this is annoying. I thought I'd already commented on this but apparently not. I really need to keep track of what I do.

Anyway, I really like this piece. I'm not usually all that keen on poetry with a constant rhyme scheme throughout, but here it really works.

The last two lines just finish the poem off beautifully, and I love the entire piece's feeling of freedom.

I love the lines:

With glasses perched upon my nose
But no socks to cover my toes,

They just sound adorable.

Great work, keep writing!

~samanthakayla Nov 14, 2012 General Artist

Haha, well thanks for coming back to it!
And thank you. I honestly wish more people would take the time to make personalized comments like you have. I really appreciate it (:
I will always keep writing. ;D