The dreams,

The glittery stars twinkling in her mind,

The windy whooshing ideas,

Never choosing one direction.

Not moving.

The soft blankets of sugar coated numbness comforting her.

She wanted to forget.

Because it all just turned to nothing when it stood in the mirror.

So she surrendered her heart and her mind. Folded her hands and prayed. To God.

Letting God dream for her.

And her body came alive,

And her life turned magnificently

Into something real.

Someone real.

She saw in the mirror.

And liked.

We write. To show. We write to put on a show. To show how good we can write. We write to say something that's been on our mind and no one else said. We write so we can remember the thoughts that otherwise will evaporate into unexpressed feeling, and might pour down in anger or sadness later. Unexplained. We write poems because they are a sip of condensed clarity and potency, creating the thought to its max intensity. They are more than the blur of prose, they are defined. They are more easy to read, harder to understand. With spaces to imagine, to gather, to figure for ourselves. We write poems to explain precisely what's going on inside us, so everyone will see. And maybe someone, but hopefully everyone, will understand.

Worth it. Every sad tear, every irritation, every frustration. Bitterness.

Every fight. Sleepless night.

I'd do it ALL over again, to make it great again.

Like when, we first met.

But better.

Learning patience, above all, to pass the test.

The kindness was there before like the love.

But the bad has to be had, and patience, dedication brings us back.

When all is said and done.

You are still there.

That means everything.

Because being there is another chance at true love, for joy to spring again.

And if it misses, it's still worth the fight because I can't forget when your heart matches over mine, covering it with love and making life worth living, double.

Lipstick gluing up mouth.

Eyes searching for eyes, attention.

Among the city men.

Disease, disrespect, disaster.

Disaster after disaster.

Not a friend to call.

After disaster.

Not a friend.

I was slouching at a broken park bench in front of a small, dirty city lake with one tear about to fall out of my eye.This tear was the only pure, valuable, clean thing left I could say I owned, that I could hold. It captured all my pain and all I had ever given to the world. I had a dirty, reddish-blackish back pack filled with essentials. My shoes were so worn as if they'd been going somewhere all these months, but, metaphorically, the person in them hadn't. I felt a nasty storm circling inside and all around me. I let the tear drop into my hand. A flash of lighting struck my whole body, and right before me was a light, a green mist, and then a glittery woman appeared.

"Hi, I'm Isabella, your fairy Godmother. I was sent to protect you and give you spiritual wings. I want to see you prosper, I want to whisper in your ear good things that keep you motivated and positive all day. You can do great things. I believe in your every step."She said in a clangy, yet, musical tone. My body tickled with surprise and hopeful fascination.

"Oh, really?" I said, and looked into her deep, twinkling purple eyes.

The days falling

dangerously

like pieces of

br

o

k

en

glass.

Determined to destroy

A life.

Realizing, accepting

Then carrying it in

the tears

When it's mentioned.

Realizing it,

Accepting it,

again.

Looking back to the beautiful

Childhood.

Looking at the darkness

Now.

Realizing, accepting.

Rolling over and over,

Trying to get comfortable in

This damaging,

disappointing,

Diagnosed

insanity.

The grass is dead.

The huskies shed.

No school for me ahead.

Just a season.

Alive for some reason.

Maybe I'll know,

when I play in the snow.

At first,

Silence.

Busy Waiting, Silence.

More silence.

Silence.

Anger.

Silence.

If he'd only talk.

Depression. Silence.

Madness.

Then one day my pen rained.

It all came out.

One feeling after

the other,

with

Thunder.

Carried all the weight of my world,

Carried to his door.

And there he was standing

At my door.

Wanting to hold me.

Arms open like a rainbow of hope,

Over my whole world.

The beauty in my lullabies,

the dark nights swallow.

The surfaces recleaned,

infinitely.

Pillow fights and silly faces

Before an accident.

Empty stomachs...filled with...

Breakfasts, lunches, dinners

Coffee made before he wakes,

First thing,

Just there, always.

Turning off all the lights,

Then on again,

before he returns.

Sowing up a whole in Teddy's ear

No one else noticed was there.

Laundry done.

Spiderwebs, dust...

Not turning on the TV.

Not getting mad.