Her Name was Love

I have seen her,
though she was not there.
I have seen her smile,
I have seen her stare.

I have heard her laugh,
though she made no sound.
I have heard her heart,
though it did not pound.

I have touched her hand,
though I could not grasp.
I have felt her embrace,
though we did not clasp.

I have stroked her face,
though I felt no heat.

Yes, I have seen her.


But our eyes did not meet.

Linger

They linger.
The lazy, the idle,
the consumed.

The please themselves--
alone.

Lying on a sofa
of perpetual fluff,
too "tired",
unwilling
to move.

They remain,
and remain--
choosing to breathe used air.

While I soar over mountains
and dive the deepest seas.

Let them linger.

I wish to Fly.

Dried Eyes

Remember me cruelly--
for I am what was.
Those who will not weep--
blinded with eyes dried closed.

Just remember,
and remember me dear.

Dear brutality, now.

Sheer Dignity, Pure Humility?

What have we?

These Dried Eyes
Pain me...

Protection

It isn't just a Flower,
the King of Hearts said.
It's not just the power,
but the thoughts in the head.

Life isn't just for living,
the Cat cleverly declared.
It's for showing your worth,
and finding who cares.

No one's there!
Cried the kaleidoscope-eyed
girl--
She was lost, out there...
No one cares!

A rose may seem beautiful,
the Heart King said.
But the thorns prevent,
and Love--it hurts.

And weeping does no good.

Tell

Death locks herself--
between life and eternity.
Lulling to sleep, millions,
causing pain, billions.

She places, among Holy Scripts,
pretty thoughts.

Lies or truths?
Only those in her sleeping den
can tell.

Eternal souls,
and her eternal Woe
or--is it Joy?

Only those in her claws--
Gentle.
can tell.

But will not tell.

Poison

I am suffocated--by slang
and trapped by idleness.
I am surrounded--held downs
by all the drug obsessed
and violent.

So many sign away--
their lives.
For one dose of
Poison.

What happiness exists
in Inconsistency?

I feel too--pushed back.
Too lost in this realm of laziness,
Unholiness.

There, the penetrating Sin
that NO ONE
questions!

At all.

Like a criminal,
I am locked up--
by Intolerance
for this
Disgraceful Earth,

God's Earth
that THEY
have

Poisoned.

Rapture

I see the fall of man--
others,
refusing to lift their hands.
This war against ourselves,
this Holocaust of lies.
Smoke--blood,
rippling against the nation's
"fearsome" flag.

We're prepared to fight--
but not to fall.

We should stand
for--Justice.
Not--hate.
We've steered from the path--
straight.

Now we tremble
at
Hell's--gates.

Woman

She is not as she seems
to be--
cold.

Sharp, hard eyes
that have seen much--
and anticipate
Hurt.

These are not symblos
of an immoral chill--
but of an immoral pain
of which she is
victim.

She is not as she seems
to be--
cold.

She is only Woman.

Hurt.

Brief

The world is too brief
a Habitat--
to fill it full of hurt.
We make misery,
then complain
of a self-made sore.

Life is--
what you want.
Your attitude is--
all that matters.

Hazel

His eyes spoke, though
his mouth did not.
Through hazel--I came to
See,
emotions, thoughts, stories
that
he never told to me.
Imminent, the pain her
Felt.
Consious, was his mind
to the Evil of this world,
subject--only to time.

He thought I could not see,
thought I could not hear.
After all, who hears
a noisless cry?
Who sees what is not there?
But I did and I have
and I will for a while.
And while he is yet to
know himself--I do.

Angelou's caged bird,
the feathered prisoner.
Trapped--
longing to fly again.

Splinters

It was not meant to be,
for you fled from my
out-stretched hand that
had been reaching--
through summer--
through fall.
Like an oncoming storm,
a cloud waiting to burst.
I was patient.
Biding my time silently,
stilly, hoping.
For I was allowed to hope--
by your eyes.

But the moment I crossed
the Fence--
crushed it beneath my feet,
cringing, but bearing
the Splinters--
The moment I felt within the
yellow atmosphere
of You and all that
You are--

I was pushed.

Falling head first toward a
cold, unfriendly pavement,
full of and soaked with--

Nothingness.

Pondering, wondering,
proved wrong,
bruised--even.

But not defeated.

I was brave.
I stood.
I lived.

It was a risk
I had taken.
A battle that
I had lost.

But there were no tears.

Only Hope.

Revelation

We amuse ourselves
with tangibility
and thoughts wove
too thin.

We consume ourselves
physically
and think nothing of sin.

When the sun,
like whispered flame,
burns out--
and day is forver,
Dark.

What will we tell--
Him?
What excuse then?

The Fire

I gazed a fire from my sill,
a fire that burned--night and
Day.
On and on, the eternal flame,
and characters came--that way.
Two Men, Two Women,
individual--yet Whole.
They passed before
The Fire--
taking flames to feed
their souls.
Each day they would come,
take some, and go--
proudly marching away.
Till one day--
only three came,
and then only two.
Then but one remained.
Great thought he seemed to think--
as he stared upon the flame.

He took a breath,
glanced--at me,

And foolishly walked away.

The Fire died that day.

Exact

Death must be a woman--
like me,
who takes and never gives.
Leaving pain behind her
as she goes.
Yes, we must be similar...
If I am selfish and cruel--
never caring.
I fancy we must be one,
for you say I am All
of these things.
And, after all,
Death is not loved.

At least--in this,
we are
Exact.

A Scene from the novel...

He approached me with a calmness, a subtleness, a seriousness that I had never recognized in him before. He was quite still, quite quiet, quite calm. I watched him approach with that steady, determined step. He had something to say. His movements were fluid as he bowed, as was the custom, took my hand, and pressed his lips to it. His eyes never left mine. They watched me. Not he, his eyes, penetrating and dark underneath the heavy brows, above that solid, set nose. His lips pulled away from my hand and he straightened. He stared. I saw in him that pain, that loneliness, that understanding that I saw in no one else and I knew then that I loved him.
He spoke.
"I know that you have watched me. I have also watched you. I have seen the toll that this has taken on you." He gestured to the throne room of the castle. "I know that it isn't the easiest thing to handle. That is why I have struggled long and hard over when to tell you..." His voice drifted and he looked away.
"Tell me what?" I asked.
"To tell you that...well...I adore you. I see you and think of sunshine. You are the light of my life and I can see myself with no one but you."
I had seen this coming, yet I was speechless. I knew, in the depths of my soul that there was something in him reaching out for that similar something in me. I knew that we could be, would be. Yet I chose to be shocked. I responded.
"Why do you choose to tell me this now?"
"Because I can bear silence no longer." He said quietly. "I have admired you from the first moment we spoke. I have carried it in silence all this time. My soul cries out for you everyday and I ignore the call. I can do it no longer." His face fell to the floor. He did not see the hidden affection in my eyes. I lifted his face with my hand.
"I wondered why you took so long." I said softly.
His face lit up like the sun breaking out of a gloomy fog. I knew that that single phrase meant more to him than anything else, and I could feel my heart breaking with happiness. He looked as if he did not know what to do next. I was of royal blood, he did not want to touch me without permission, so I embraced his as warmly as I could. I could almost feel the relief radiating from his person, the joy, the excitement. I realized that no man had ever cared that much before.

This is how it should have happened. Instead, it went something like this.

I approached him with terror. I could feel my hands shaking, my body unwilling to go where I willed it to go. I saw him standing by the oak tree in the garden, surveying the land. I was anything but calm, anything but still. He turned and saw me, and smiled warmly. My stomach fluttered and I knew in my heart that I loved him.
"Ileana." He greeted me with a bow. "How nice to see you well again."
"Yes, I feel much better." I said, struggling to smile.
"What's wrong?" He asked, concern flashing across his face.
"I've just been thinking a great deal lately."
"About?"
"About many things. About love..." I said cautiously.
He flinched.
"I have tried to keep this to myself, but I can do it no longer. I want you to know that you are the only person I have ever felt this strongly for. I want you to know that I have taken a risk by telling you....by admitting..." I said, searching for words, "that I love you."
He seemed surprised, though I knew that he had known all along. I was shocked at myself. I had never done that before. It didn't think it was that difficult anymore. Little did I know, the difficult part was about to come.
"I am very flattered by your affection, Ileana." He said, looking away. "And I would like to tell you that I feel the same...but I simply can't." He eyed me with sympathy. "I don't feel for you the way you feel for me. I'm sorry."
The world was dark. The smile was torn from my face, my confidence crushed, my happiness squandered. He did not feel as I did. Yet, I had been so sure! There were signs, smiles and laughter and the way he looked at me. I had thought that these were all signs of love. How could i have been wrong!
"It's fine.."I muttered. "I'm fine." I told him this without him asking because his eyes were guilty. I ran from him, from what once was my happiness, what once was the world.

That is how it really happened.

Question..

How dare the question mark--
be braver than love.
How dare it assume power
over a moment.

How can it prevail
while his intentions were so clear?
No question mark has ever come between love
No answer ever witheld.

How dare the question mark--
be braver than love.
Yet, how dare love--
prove coward
to a question.

Wasted

 

Of all the things I gave you;

Everything I had.

Of all the times I saved you,

from what you knew was bad.

For all the times I told you

they would always be wrong.

for every lie, I consoled you

Lies that went on too long.

For all the things I did,

all the time I spent.

For all the love I threw at you,

and all the rules I bent.

For every wasted moment,

For every broken swear.

For every shattered promise,

and every stitched up tear…

You still could not see

exactly what you had..

you left me here, broken,

a nothingness in my hands…

To cry for you would be a shame,

but that’s all I seem to do.

It’s sad that all my efforts

I had to waste on you.

Letting Go…

She didn’t know that being calm could be so hard. Never before had she felt the need to cry, scream, fall. It was like four years old again…the age where you finally start to come through and realize that when you’re told no, there isn’t anything you can do about it. She had always liked to have control over things. She had always had it her way. And she never truly abused that privilege. She got what she wanted gratefully, and earned it. She didn’t kick and scream to get her way—it was given to her. It was only natural that when he called her and told her that this was really goodbye, that she would cry. But the amazing thing was that she was able to hang up that phone without any questions, without any yelling or patronizing, without any fighting. She stayed calm, and yes, it was difficult. For someone who had always maintained control, it was hard. The situation spiraled out of her control, and she understood that there was nothing she could do to get her way this time. She felt wronged, of course. Used, abused, hurt, angry, useless. All these things she felt and not one of them did she let show. She maintained a cool countenance so that he would not feel bad. This was truly his fault, and she knew that deep down inside. But some part of her still wanted to take the blame. Some part of her still wanted him to be happy. This had never happened to her before and she found it hard to follow through with. She was no Helen Burns, she believed in Justice. The evil will be punished, and the good rewarded. So when this itty bitty part of her stepped into the light, demanding that she take full blame and do whatever she could, even in heartbreak, to make him happy, she was confused. If he had acted wrongly, then shouldn’t she in turn, wrong him? It was a simple philosophy, and she wished that it could be right. But it wasn’t right. She had to let go of what he had done to her. She had to be caring, loving, and kind. She knew this, but being as stubborn as she was, she did not want it. She wanted revenge for the pain she felt. In the end, she thought of his smile. She thought of his laugh and how he had held her and walked with her and listened to her. She thought of herself then, up in the clouds, while her world was in shambles. She felt more pain than ever now, realizing that he was perfect. She thought of him, and suddenly, she knew. To let go is practical, to cling to, irrational. She had to let go, for her own sake. And so she did. He deserved happiness, and so did she. Only time can tell if they will ever find each other again.

Frankenstein:

 

The world is full of what we can’t see--

Too spun with lies  and hurt.

These are ridicules masked with time…

And they say Time heals:

Time is never present among the still cold,

Time never waits for humanity to keep up.

 

If we stopped and looked around--

If we gazed up at the skyscrapers reaching tall,

the once-melodious valleys now embedded with

metal and rot,

the brown waters,

and the burning sun--

 

What would we feel?

 

Would we see what is invisible?

A land running rich with milk—and honey?

The Promised Land?

Would we see that we have advanced so far—advanced

everyday closer

to a Dark Ending?

 

Or instead would we feel nothing?

 

Would we be content with our

Frankenstein?

Would we submerge into a numbness

too deep to swim out of?

 

We would—because

we already have…

…Snapshot:

 

Earth’s photo captured,

frozen in time--

forever on that one squared sheet.

 

Humanity’s photo captured,

frozen as well--

forever, as long as it keeps.

A series of snapshots,

all in a day,

of the Church and the Land,

and the Sky--

the wind in the trees,

the sun and sea,

and even the tears being cried…

 

these photos weren’t for looking,

they weren’t even for show,

they weren’t to be kept in dust,

never to be known--

 

to make them aware,

was my mission.

to make them see what they had done.

 

not to punish, or to change

but to leave that up to them.

to make them know that

there is better,

out there--

somewhere,

calm. 

When youth is gone…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When youth is gone,

what will we have?

memories, love, fear?

 

Memories of happiness

and frolic,

memories of dreams older than

yourself.

 

Love of someone,

perhaps?

Love from family,

friend,

or heart?

Will you have anyone near?

 

Fear of dying, maybe?

The fear whose foundation creeps

closer—everyday.

There is nothing we can do

to stop the black menace from taking life.

 

Would you live on in such a way?

As a scared old woman who tears

for days passed?

 

Well not me.

I will live as an elder,

wise with age,

and elder who understands,

who interprets,

who ministers.

I will not give up the life

that youth gives,

because when old,

life is not over yet.

 

I will live until I die.

 

Will you?

Shattered:

Splintered amongst old books of falsehood,

telling not a soul:

Shattered are our morals and beliefs,

Hell is no different from our heavens.

 

We kill for not,

we cry for not,

What else matters?

What else is held dear than these selfish hopes?

 

Permeating life itself

…and combining the elements—of hate and love;

to far gone are we.

 

Backs turned from the warmth, the light

the love…

eyes forward, burning,

 

toward hate.

Birds can Cry too--

Birds can cry too—she said,

although they chirp and fly,

one may—be happy, but still

they cower and fear.

Only to tear for these

emotions never shown,

for the world frozen shut by gluttony,

to open it now—would break.

So it remains an icy tomb

for all those belonged to its chill--

and where love can never bloom,

madness surely will.

Insanity lurks at the corner

of our black alley hearts,

what’s to Fear but Fear itself?

that which drives apart;

all the brave and shinning,

like the sun—in joyous mirth,

but we lead along our misery

to swallow up new birth.

The world comes old and slows,

pain again—consumes all.

and around the fire we will tell…

of Earth’s tragic fall.

Lady Jane Grey: England’s Shortest Reign:

Okay so, this is a little story about a girl named Lady Jane Grey. She was the great-grand daughter to King Henry the VII, if you don’t know who that it, go Google him. Anyways so, Jane. This girl has a cousin who is the current king of England, Edward. Now Edward and Jane love each other, I know, gross, incest, whatever. So Edward is dying of some horrid disease that is totally curable now, and according to his lovely, horribly greedy advisor, John Dudley, on his deathbed he proclaimed his cousin, fifth in line to the throne, his successor. Now you can imagine the horror of Jane after hearing that the love of her youth, her best friend, and her king, had just died. But then along comes her evil, terrible uncle. Now this uncle has nothing but the little dollar sign in his eyeballs if you catch my drift. So Jane Grey is this sweet little innocent thing who doesn’t realize that her horrid Uncle is lying when he tells her she was proclaimed successor by Edward. He never uttered a word of it, but he knew that Jane wouldn’t take the throne unless this was the case. The throne really belonged to Mary Tudor, or as most of you know her, Bloody Mary. Oh yeah, she’s real. Really a Queen. Yup. Anyways, Mary hears that this little girl who is only sixteen has just taken her throne, what’s rightfully hers, and how do you think she feels? No one told her that Jane’s words, when told she was the next queen, were “The crown is Queen Mary’s”. No one told her that Jane had been lied to. Maybe she would’ve acted differently. Jane was brave and dignified as she was thrown into to tower only nine days after her rule. She was to be beheaded within the next couple days, and everyone convinced Jane that since Mary was her cousin, she would not kill her. Surely she would give her a pardon. Surely she would not be that cruel as to kill an innocent, close, friend and family member. Surely. They were wrong. Jane was carried past the dead body of the husband she had been forced to marry by her uncle and John Dudley, and laid at the block. She blindfolded herself and told the executioner to “dispatch her quickly”. She kept waiting for a pardon, but it never came. Her last words were to God, begging him to take her into his hands. Jane died at the age of seventeen, had been married to a man she despised, had been Queen of England unwillingly, and had never once made a decision of her own in her short life.

 

Let’s all not be John Dudley here, Let’s not be Jane’s uncle, who forced her to be something she never wanted to be. Look where she ended up. Her parents were cruel. They always beat her and yelled at her. She had no real friends, besides Edward, who died, and Perhaps Sir Thomas, a man she met along the way in life who promised to adopt her and take her into his home. This was yet another disappointment for poor Jane. She died calmly, and with dignity. She died after seventeen years of a miserable life, though she had been married in expensive clothes and had been queen. She went to all the parties, all the balls and get togethers. She wore all the latest fashions, and traversed England. She went to court at Christmas and frolicked with Henry the Eights wife (not all six of them, mind you). She lived the life of an English courtier. She was a Lady, a noble of fine stature. These are things that are supposed to make you happy, right? Wrong. I will bet you anything, that one of those last thoughts, while she waited for that huge blade to come down on her neck, was “What could I have done?” She probably looked back and realized she had never done a thing in her life that made her happy. Lady Jane Grey lived, but never fully lived. I guess the moral is not really, do not become a John Dudley or Jane’s uncle, the moral is, don’t be like Jane. Control your life. It’s yours, and it's the only one you get.