( Below each line is a different poem. None of these have names.)
The dirt beneath the nail of your index finger became apparent as you extended and retracted that first digit, so aptly like a "1."
It beckoned me like a tiger convincing a sheep to come just a little closer to the tree,
but the pounding in its head created a desire to give in;
a soft sigh in every membrane,
a clearly waving white flag in every lobe--
created in such a way, gently reminding us that if it's not the tiger,
it'll be the hyenas.
She laid upon the ocean floor
like the tallest mountain, a true home.
She's filled with life that no one sees, hidden beneath the waves, taken by the selfish sea.
Her tears kill and create.
Corpses are lain, islands are made.
She is suffocated by the life she makes.
One day, she prays for a swift death by an earthquake;
to be hidden away is such a waste, living just to live, being just because.
She thinks that's no life at all.
How important are you to the things that need you most?
Does it matter?
Is it what you want?
Break away, earthquake, and kill what feeds on you for good.
It wasn't a breeze blowing the ashes of our city, it was the burning--a grinding of the eyes that can't look away while the brain begs, "Stop staring at the sun."
It was a day, a span of time only measured accurately by the feelings it inflicted, but "it" is all it's called.
We don't address it, we just share the memories and look to one another in a passing glance, wondering, briefly, if they were thinking of it, too.
We never forget.
We wish, we dream, but we'll never be the same.
Look to the heavens, for that is what it means to look to the future.
No matter what we remember, what we think, it will always comfort us, (a rocking cradle to a crying babe), to know that we'll all end up there one day,
which is why--despite the begging mind--our eyes can't break from the sun.
Pull the colors from my head.
Words mean nothing.
Who cares if the world sees?
Who cares if anyone understands?
Why do we ask, "who cares?"
We need others to hear, to know.
I'll do it for me--what keeps me happy.
Pull the colors from my lungs, I no longer need to breathe.
It won't be hard,
butter you up when you don't like what's been done.
Keeping you pacified keeps me occupied,
just wasting time until the next dream comes.
We all just wait to return to the dirt,
take our pay from the trees for our work,
eat from the animals and leaves from the earth
and pray, as we sleep, when we go, it won't hurt.
What is a lie, and why does it matter?
I scared the heart until it shattered--
Broke into a hundred pieces,
I divided them by two
and sent the rest across the world so you may see and know the meaning of love;
for it isn't here.
It can't be here,
right in the same spot where we started...
Addicted to the feeling of fabric between your fingers
burning the prints from your fingertips,
you want to be new.
Soft ovals comb through the strands of your hair,
each lock a false color, not natural to you.
Everything about you is a lie,
you want to be new.