She wears the perfume

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She wears the perfume,
and she wears it nicely.

It's hard to tell at first,
but there's definitely something

beneath initial wafts
and first impressions

of her.

I don't know how to describe it--
(let me gather myself, let me gather my thoughts).

She's an interesting person...
someone beyond her years.
I really see her differently,
and it's not just the scent that defines her.

Her courage to question a system
that she thought could be so flawless, and so
unshakably, unmistakably

Perfect.

She wears the perfume,
and she wears it well.


So well, in fact, that she's choking
on the illusions that the witches have brewed,

contained in a ... glass
ever so lucidly.

the drugs have synthesized with oxygen--
circulation running amuck in her cherry "snow white" heart.

And it pumps--beats--pumps--beats--,
all the way to her feet,
and her arms and her legs and her stomach.

Slowly, she's ingesting the surreal,
digesting the unreal,
and protesting the real
and learned.

She wears the perfume to cover all this. lost in
figures and places that used to be familiar, but
are really just trapped in foreign vortexes of her once
familiar mind.

And this is how she copes with it,
on the real,
dressing herself for false attention and
setting herself up for a dinner date with
disappointment and heartbreak and stomachaches.

And this is just her countenance,
her cathedral facade--perceived as high and mighty
and royal and INVOLVED.

The truth could not be so distant.

And she's crying, begging to me,
to ME,
to help her through this and to mend her
sprained ankles over missing these
FOUR IMPORTANT STAIR STEPS
to identify, and
to reach that achieved state of mind.

Minus the truth.

Yesterday: Ages Ago

When we sat on a bench
Small talking, taking pictures
Feeling unnoticeably awkward
And getting to know each other.

When we drove around
To what seemed like Neverland
(because we got lost
and decided to just go on
OUR very own adventure)
In the middle of the night while
KOST-ing it.

When I slept on the couch
And YOU were my blanket
(not because you didn't
or couldn't make your way home.
Oh, the dumb excuses you made...
But because I didn't,
actually, couldn't make my way home
and you wanted to stay).

When you came from across the room,
Held out your hand,
And we rolled, we glided, we sweated...
WE danced.
(Points of contact: body to body;
And you held my hand
With only a few fingers interlaced
Because you knew I liked it that way).

When I thought you were mine.
And you figured out that I'm yours to keep.
And now I'm in too deep to jump out.
In to you, in to this triangle of
Unrequited, unconditional love for you,
the way you say you love her
(And yes, she may see the best & worst with you,
But she doesn't accept it the way I do;
Cliche but true:
She doesn't see how your imperfections
Really do make you perfect...)

When you called me your sister,
And I smiled in returned
And yelled out, "Whattup, bro!"
And you frowned because you realized
That's how she sees you.

When you leaned on my shoulder,
And laughingly whispered, "I love you, man."
And I respond, "I love you."
Oh wait--that was today.
Actually... that's every day.

Empires.

When fools can be leaders,
And leaders can be fools,
We'll have ourselves a revolution.

Plans.

We live our lives to expect the worst.
Yet we plan for the best.

Nice People

We are people pleasers who subconsciously live for the smiles and gratuitous compliments we receive from each small and random act of kindness we commit. We alter our behaviors with the hope of impressing those who watch us closely (or those whom we want to watch us closely). We are wanderers and sometimes even floaters, lusting (and probably needing) for an exclusive, secluded place to claim as our very own. Simultaneously, we long for that one person--a being we'd like to label as our soulmate--to be able to share that place (at least for one moment in our lifetime) with us.

Prideful? Conceited? Whatever.
Here's the deal: I'm the NICEST person you'll ever meet.

Outiside: smiles and holds up a peace sign
Inside: yells out the eff word and holds up a peace sign without the index finger

Passing thought.

Waking

up?

Beep Beep Beep

Isittimetowakeup?
WasIDreaming?IsItFriday?

Oh, no.

It's just, another day.
Out of the room
brushing my teeth
dressing up
getting ready.
No more time for breakfast, whatever's in the room.

Running running running

Session 1:
Let the clock strike 10.
Sleeping or dreaming of sleeping.
Can you repeat that?
I couldn't hear.

Walk, Walk, Walk.

Lunch:
Who's around?
Schedules clash, don't they?
Planning ahead:
I remember now.
It's you and you, then you.
Now it's time-
Avoid main entrees,
getting settled.
Abundance in little.

Walk.
Oh, that person from that time
Walk.
Oh, another squirrel
Walk.
Oh, a flyer
Walk.
Oh, life


Hour Gap:
Free time, my time,
or lost time?
Finding friends
interacting or not-
Update entries with the world.
Yawning.
Ticking clock.
Thinking
thinking
thinking
Too late.

Running running running

Session 2:
Let the clock strike 12.
Ah, makes more sense
though I didn't read.
I know but I don't know.

Walk.
What comes next?
Walk.
This turn here.
Walk.
Yes.

Session 3:
Information limit
Or lack thereof?
Last one to go.
Talking, sitting, listening.
Talking, sitting, listening.
Talking,
Midterm?
sitting,
Grades?
listening,
Future?

Distraction.


Walking (running), walking (running), walking (running).


Dinner:
With or alone?
Same question every night:
Friends?
Family?
Twins?
Chew. Independence?
Chew. Question mark?
Chew. Chew. Chew.
... Swallow.


Walk. You're that person from that time.
Walk. Hanging out.
Walk. Will I go out?
Walk. What's the borderline?
Walk. Finals?
Walk. What about summer?
Walk. Am I ready?
Walk. I wish there would be care.
Walk. The motivation to move.
Walk. Sedentary life.
Walk. Flab.
Walk. Love?


Starting the job (maybe).
Opening the book (ideally).
Doing the work.
Thinking:

not an option.

Thinking:

a passing thought.

shadow girl

I looked at her thighs--
boney thin and erect;
dim and graceful and
everything I wanted i
n myself and in my m
ind. Her legs, so slend
er and civil and classy
. Her arms, sleek as b
arbed wire, cold to th
e touch (her touch wa
s ever so vague and c
omplacent). She looke
d once familiar to me,
like a mirror rebound
ing off the asphalt ins
tead of glass. The "s
ilver" girl, (gold is exh
austed). Her face was
meaningless to me; a
clean slate--as clean a
s the chalkboards that
leave vague imprints a
fter furiously trying to
erase any lovely mista
k es. She is me, yet
I am not her.

I am so jealous.

I want her. I wa
nt to be
her.
.
.
.


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Inspiration: A young girl once told me, "I wish I looked like my shadow" as we were walking outside one day. She was telling me this as she was looking at her shadow stretching across the concrete as the sun was setting (yet in this poem, I stated that the shadow is running along asphalt, not concrete). At such a young age, this girl was unhappy with her body weight. This poem is trying to reenact that dissatisfaction, yet I think it goes so much deeper than words can depict.