dear one i do not know

dear one i do not know,
tomorrow came faster than we thought, did it not? do you remember the dreams we had? do you remember the plans we made? i do. the goals have faded into ashes. the dreams like smoke from that cigarette i smoked three months ago. ashes ashes ashes we all fall down. isn't that what we used to sing dancing in that living room? they told us the sky is the limit. (they didn't take in to consideration that the sky ends.) i've thought of this, you know. that seems to be the only thing my thoughts consist of. where did we go wrong? when did we lose sight of the path? was there ever a path to begin with? or was it something we dreamed up or a parent told us? i think it is the second one. so many times one loses sight of their own ambitions and takes hold of those ambitions others have for them. this is what happened to us. now we are sinking in quicksand and there is an end to the sky.
yours truly,
other self

Screaming

Get out! Get out!
Is all she yells
At the furry thing.
No! No!
Is all she says
Screaming under breath.
(Yes! Yes!)
Is all she wants
To say to every-thing.
Screaming, Screaming.
Whispers all the words.
She tells the little furry thing
"I love you all the while."
No! No!
She shouts again
Every other hour.
No! No!
Get Out! Get Out!
(Yes! Yes! I relinquish myself.)

untitled institution

the institutions all the same
the words they say
the oxygen in their lungs
every message holds
the same information
one could have learned
from being in their age
i want to be in challenge
to get close to the edge
i want to read the Book
and find out what it says
i don't need to know
compassion
i've learned it once before
what we really need is
convictions
that aren't lying on the floor
pick up your act
step outside yourself
take a leap into
the out of self
you've made
i'm sick of hearing
the same thing Every-time
sick of repetition
when all they are
are lies
i want to be real
i want to set apart
a self
that is not one's self
a self that is so far

i wIll not be there

when i thInk
Of all the ThIngs
that could go wrong
all the brIdges
that could have Burned
From the songs
i dIdn't sIng
from the rIngIng
In your voIce
all the tImes
i dIdn't say
all the forgets
and tomorrows
i dIdn't pray
the questIons
one should Never Ask
the WIndIng way
wIll make one stray
If the eye
Is not careful
EnougH
all the endIngs
could go wrong
all the lyrIcs
of a song
fall down
a draIn
In the SIlence
of sweet raIn
If one fall
Is not enough
If one song
goes unsung
If one word
goes unsaId
i wIll not be there.

Nerves

Nerves - nerves.
Gracious nerves
Nerves floating
So free.
They fly
and fly
And then
They land
Like a
Little Bee.
Buzz - Buzz
Goes the
Bee Buzz.
Fuzz - Fuzz
On His
Tail.
Calm - calm
oh, so
calm.
Like the
ocean tide.
Float - float
on a
Raft.
In the
sea.
Share - share
all your
thoughts.
With that
little Bee.
Come - come
we will
walk
into
E-ternity.
Sleep - sleep
I may sleep
until that
day
will come.
Float - float
Buzz - buzz
Someone
calm
These
Nerves.

Period.

The ink is bleeding from my pen.
Comma splices through my head,
Constraints-on-every-word-I-say.
Lukewarm coffee on my tongue.
I cannot write,
For all seems undone.
The Santa Anas have come to Texas
Screwing up our flow.
I swear this is why
No one seems to show.
Isolated, in my house
And, no I don' hear a freaking mouse.
There's nothing romantic about this place;
It seems a bit like waste.
Punctuation has not an end.
Every period stops.
Every comma cuts,
Every exclamation point
Well, it can't exclaim much anymore.
Let's say period,
For all it needs is an end.

baking from the heart

I have found a book to read! Julie and Julia: my year of cooking dangerously. I think it fits, don't you? Here is my latest thought: there are two things I know and love, writing and cooking. I am reading Julie Powell's story on her year of cooking, which also gives me some insight on Julia Child. So where is this going? I love to cook more than anything, almost more than I love to write. There's something about rolling out my made-from-scratch pie crust and getting it ready to fill. Every time I make a pie and give it someone it's like I'm giving them a little piece of me, I know that may sound ridiculous. But truly baking is the best therapy, it makes me relax and it makes me happy to know I'm making something for someone else (I usually don't eat very much of what I cook, I'm not sure why). Okay, do me a favor think of some place where you feel totally at rest. A place where you have no worries, no stress, nothing but pure bliss. Have you got it? What if a pie could capture that very essence? Where in every bite whether you were in the place of pure bliss or not, you would be able to escape and feel as though all is right. I don't have any clue how I could manage this. I mean I have to get a four year degree first according to my mother. But what if I could do it? What if all I did everyday was baked pies? How wonderful would that be! Like I said, I have no clue how it could work, but isn't that the beauty? These are my thoughts, and it may be my pursuit.