many small people, doing many small things, have the strength to change the world.............
Because of Doctor WhoBecause of Doctor Who I am Afraid of...
2. Christmas trees
5. school food
7. blue tooth devices
10. children's drawings
11. MRI machines
13. gas masks
14. brass bands
17. the dark
21. coma patients
23. ...and hospitals again
25. weight loss pills
30. old ladies
THREE DAYS FROM NOWfor Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04
three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
fighter jets and zeppelins
burst open the door
translate her body into an equation
of one–hundred twenty pounds moving
nine–point–eight meters per second per second
and tumble from heaven
because she wants to taste the sky
on her birthday
this is the part of the poem
where I should drop metaphors
about falling in love with her
or how she's already fallen from heaven once
or something about shooting stars
or glass ceilings
but this isn't a love poem
I said I would fall alongside her
stretch out fingers to find her
falling ninety miles an hour
doesn't scare me nearly
as much as forgetting her touch
the romantic in me said
if her parachute does not open,
I will not open mine
instead, I would rather impress myself
emboss myself into the earth
next to her
so that the soil remembers me following her
until the crater I create
speaks poetry without my body there
32:3I poked holes into my palms
when it came time to pray.
Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquid
into the cathedral floors
and into bones holding up sinners &
saints. I thought
God would understand my sentiment of knowing
departed people and the segments
that drove them mad.
The Sundays that stood churchless
in the yard, outside by dad's
always told me stories of the whale
that swallowed the man that swallowed
his pride that ate his faith
and ended up a new whale with hands
as big as baskets.
To this day he hands out bread
in his fresh-baked book of poems
and waits for me to poke more
tiny holes into my tiny hands.
Half-praying a please.
SupermanSuperman sits alone
His head in his hands -
The worlds slipping away...
Through my fingers like sand.
Always a crime being committed,
Im stopping all that I can stop.
Sure, I can go fast, but...
Im already giving all Ive got.
And what about the children,
All the homeless on the street?
The people with nowhere to go,
And not enough food to eat?
And wars are being fought...
Millions of miles away;
Too many lives being lost
Every single day...
Superman sits alone
A tear falling from his eye -
Nothings getting better,
No matter how hard I try.
This world is getting so heavy;
I... I can only do so much...
And sometimes, even Superman
Cannot do enough.
Unpainted RealityMy brain is sick.
It only thinks of twisted things.
Like how we burn our eyes out,
And we rip our wings.
And then we sit in the dark,
Staring blankly at each other.
Our eye-sockets bleeding,
On a wounded brother.
Then we kneel down,
Praying to the sun.
Hoping things get brighter;
But we don't know what we've done!
We take our tongues out,
We scar them with razors.
Spitting every blade
Across other people's faces.
And if you start feeling,
My words are getting dark;
I'm just painting pictures
But you are making them stark!
And now you feel dead;
Surreal in your mind.
So listen to this preacher,
From the land of the blind.
A Cure For Writer's Block[A Cure For Writer's Block]
When your pen hits the paper and nothing comes out
With a full cartridge, something's about.
Sitting there lonely staring off into space
You've got Writer's Block mate, it's a terrible case
The symptoms are some of the worse things to *bare
If left untreated, might as well say a prayer.
Diagnosing the problem is the first step to take
So let's get it started before it's too late.
Do you find yourself doing, the things you've put off?
Or watching TV late at night till you cough?
Dusting and cleaning. Hunting for food.
Surfing the net since you've found yourself glued.
Hanging out with friends all night long?
Getting them together for a night on the Town.
Or lying in bed staring off into space
Tossing something up till it hits you in the face.
This list of symptoms can go on and on
Keeping you busy for weeks, whilst mentally withdrawn.
Now on to the cure which you'll see,
It's really quite simple like *growing a tree
To Block means to stop, the i
Week to Weak.Week to Weak.
Why is it the week days go so slow?
But yet the weekends are over in an instant.
I have gotten so used to being constantly on the go,
That every part of my life has become routinely consistent.
Whenever I have a time slot that is vacantly free,
I feel as if I should be developing or preparing for something else.
I always feel as if there is somewhere else that I was meant to be.
I never take full advantage of the short intervals I have to myself.
I’ve had enough of the early mornings and the constant yawning.
Dreaming of over sleeping and then opening my eyes all of a sudden.
Even the usual serene sounds of the birds chirping have become haunting.
Every morning I wake up to my annoying alarm and tap the snooze button.
I work, wait and anticipate for the week to end.
Making hopeful plans to catch up with some old friends.
And before you know it Monday has dawned once again.
I wish the weekends had more days imbedded in-between them.
look at the clouds todaywhen i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing.
when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder.
when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i coul
Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress
I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)
I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)
Now, I just want to go back
Back when the only kissing I thought about
Was in The Princess and the Frog
And the only houses I had to be weary of
Were houses made of candy
Back when the only disappointment
Was when my parents were too tired to read me a bedtime story
Or when I found out that the real Little Mermaid
Dies by Hans Christian Andersen's hand