The Water People

   It was the last glimpse of water she would ever see, in her heart she knew this.  She had grown up on the water, in the water.  It was in her blood, one of the Water People.
   But they were taking everyone, it had started quietly.  First, the elders would slip into the water and never resurface.  The men and women would follow, their feet would step off the boats and onto the dirt in the dead of night, leaving their children to fend for themselves.  The teens became scared when the babes disappeared.  They had posted guards, settled in the deepest portions of the water where no land could be seen anywhere around them.  Still the small ones had vanished.  All that was left of the Water People was a group of 3 boys and 5 girls, all between the ages of 16 and 22 years old.  But eventually, they came for them too.
   Tashia walked quietly next to Wairin.  They were the two oldest and the others looked to them for direction.  There had been some struggle, the Water People were proud people, but in the end there was no use to fight against them.
   She studied their captors as they pushed them into vans that were parked at the top of the docks.  They were dressed as though they were going into combat, shadowed face guards prevented her from making eye contact with any of them.  She braided her long golden brown hair as they began driving, the strands of her hair falling through her fingers calmed her thoughts.
   She made eye contact with each person in the van: Wairin, Nadia, Kyler, Bennigan, Ras, Ribah, and Nakhira. There were glimpses of pride and fear reflected in each of them.

Daddy's Tears

I saw daddy crying
he was sitting on the couch
and he thought
no one was around.

But I stood in the doorway
as the tears fell
from his eyes.

I walked over to him
and kissed his cheek,
because mommy says
kisses make everything better.

And it must have worked
because daddy smiled
and hugged me
and told me he loved me.

But I already knew that.


I didn't understand
but the years passed and
I learned the lesson
all too well.

As I sat on my couch,
tears falling from my eyes.

I felt a little kiss on my cheek,
and I wrapped my arms
around my son
and told him I loved him.

And he told me he already knew that.

Simply [poem]

We share a
beautiful understanding
rooted within a
deep misunderstanding
of the world around us.
And we call this place
love.
On the corner of
misery and hope
in the town of
unbearable.
And I wouldn't
want to be
anywhere else,
with anyone else.

that girl.

I'm that girl
they write about
in country songs,
that can bring
a man to his knees.

I'm that girl
standing in the doorway
with tears
in her eyes.

I'm that girl
serenading her steering wheel
wishing that one
special boy
was sitting next to her.

I'm that kind of girl
that cries herself to sleep,
and can't look herself
in the eye.

I'm that girl
that will face
up to her fears,
and stare down
her doubters.


I'm that girl
they write
songs about.

empty.

there are no words.
nothing i could say
that could make this
right again.

there are no actions
nothing i could do
that could change
your mind.

there is no love
nothing
to hold us
together.


there is a hole,
a piece missing
when i'm not
with you.

a piece of me
that's always with you
and i can only see it
when you're looking
at me.

but you don't
look at me.

not anymore.

don't walk away
with the part of
my heart
i have given to you,
without giving a part
of yours
to me.

drawing

I wish I could draw
your eyes when they're
looking at me.

I wish I could draw
your smile and illustrate
the way you laugh.

I wish I could capture
your passion and put it
into words.

But I still need more time,
more nights studying
the way you look at me.

Because maybe one day,
I'll learn to draw.

And I'll draw your eyes
when they're looking at me.

poison air.

this air
  is suffocating
me.

so desperate
     for any kind
of reassurance.
        that i'll
never believe.

i'm drowning.

and all i hear
   is your voice.
telling me i'm ok,

but i don't believe you.

i believe
   in your silence.
in your touch.

but i don't believe
   that i'm ok.

i'm still drowning.

I just want to say.....

   A writer's fantasy
their journey.

   Twisted, and complex
never understood
   not even by the author.

Words come
   by themselves.
Unwanted.

Like the halls
   of a dream
bright or dark
      lies the truth.

twisted, unwanted,
   unwarranted.

   embrace   the twisted         fantasy.
live.    midst      the rubble of all the lives.
 twisted.
     written.


only            play.
        child's

poetry: Propose to Me.

Propose to me on a Tuesday,
when everything is going wrong
and I tell you that
"I feel ugly today."

Propose to me on a Wednesday
when I'm almost asleep,
curled up in your arms
and the TV flickers silently.

Propose to me on Friday
when the lights are all off
and we're slow dancing
in your kitchen.

Propose to me Someday,
because I'm so in love.
You won't have to worry
what my answer will be.
   Because I know
   I could be the one
    by your side
     for the rest
     of our lives.

Fantasy Blurb

   She felt him looking at her.  She looked away from the ocean and locked her green eyes with his storm grey ones.  He smiled and looked at the waves crashing against the rocks below them.
   She smiled and followed his gaze.
   They stood silently, next to each other- comfortable in the other's silence.  They had known each other for so long, they no no longer needed words to communicate.
   He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, closing his eyes.
   She smiled and picked up her weather beaten medicine bag.  "Come, Nogal- there are things to be done," she said quietly.
   He turned and followed her back through the woods to the community.  She gave him a small smile and a nod, "Thank you for your Guardianship Lor Nogal, may the Diamond Ladies smile fondly on your time on earth."
   And may the King Moon shine favorably on yours, Trista," he replied softly.
   She nodded again and made her way to the Healing Father's tents.
   "The Lor Nogal looks upon you with passion in his eye, my child," the Healing Father told Trista as they sorted through the plants Trista had gathered on her search.
   She blushed, "Father, Lor Nogal is too great a man for a simple healing assistant.  His wife will be of higher birth than I."
   The old man humphed at her, "The young will learn one day that they cannot escape fate, and so will instead embrace what the old already know."
   Trista laughed, "Father, I intend to take my vows --"
   "As one of the Garden Daughters, yes I know," the Healing Father made his way inside one of the large healing tents, Trista trailing him with the basket of plants.  "My daughter," he continued.  "Your nature does not fit the Garden Daughters.  You were born to fight."
   "I have no family to sponsor me Father," Trista told him, just like she did every time they had this conversation.  "Besides no one sponsors a girl-- no matter how good she is."
   The Father rolled his eyes, "My child, have faith in your fate.  The Ladies know what they are doing."
   Trista smiled, "I wish they would tell us mere humans what part we are to play."
   "That would take all the mystery out of this journey!" the Healing Father exclaimed.
   Their laughter was interrupted by a Guardian coming into the tent.   "Lar Trista, his Lor Nogal summons you to his tent," the man said.
   Trista ignored the Healing Father's wink, grabbed her medicine bag, and followed the Guardian through the camp to the High Tent.  Many of the people their heads in a quick prayer as she passed, recognizing her as a Healer by her black tunic, red sash, and well worn leather medicine bag.  The Healers work was directly dependent on the Diamond Ladies favor, and it was considered goo manners to thank the Ladies when the Healers passed.
   Trista was used to the hushed whispers and heads that bobbed like a field of long grass in the breeze that followed a Healer's path.
   When they reached the High Tent the Guardian announced her, then disappeared leaving her alone with Nogal.
   "Hello Trista," Nogal said quietly.
   "Hello Nogal," she replied, matching the level of his voice.

The Rock

   She sat on the rock, their rock.  The rock they had sat on together.  The rock no one else knew about.  Everyone knew about the river, it ran straight through town, but no one knew about their rock- except them.  It was not a very big rock, and it wasn't anything attention grabbing, but it was enough... it had been enough for them.  Their first kiss had been on this rock, this is where they came when they resolved their arguements, this is where they had come to sit quietly next to each other.  Just the river singing its song, the birds singing theirs, the trees reaching for the sky, and their rock.
   But it had stopped being enough.  She could no longer make him happy.  She willed herself to cry, but she couldn't.  She could feel the tears waiting to come out, but they couldn't.  Every time she heard his voice, or heard his name, or dreamed of his arms around her she only wanted to laugh.  The thought of him still filled her with a joy she could not quench.
   She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the rock, reliving every conversation they had had together.  She had never felt so comfortable.  And she didn't regret opening herself up to him.  She could never regret those hours of her life she had given freely to him.
   What hurt her the most, is that she doesn't know what he thinks of her now.  Does he regret her?  The unanswered questions she has are the things keeping her up at night.  The moments she wants to run to him about she has to keep quietly to herself.
   And when she's scared, there's no one to tell her everything is going to be ok.
   She let her fingers drop into the cool water of the river.  She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her back.  Then she stood and walked away.

   Leaving everything but his memory behind.

B!tche% and @ueen%

   The story of my life is not worth telling, but my counselor wants me to write out “all my life experiences”.

…What?!

   But my parents have bribed me with a car if I continue to go to my “counselor” and do everything she tells me to.  So, I’ll give this a shot, can’t hurt to write about my mundane life in hell.

   I was born August 3^rd in the small town of Calemsville, population 3,225.  My mother always complained I had a big city attitude, which was true.  My whole life this whole town has been too small for me.

   Most of the things I found amusing included: painting park benches without telling people, putting glue on toilet seats at school, taking all of the pencil sharpeners out of the walls, breaking the taillights on every car in the town, smashing mailboxes, and other such things.  Needless to say most of my adventures ended with me in handcuffs, sitting in the city jail, and my parents getting to be on a first name basis with every police officer in the small town- all 8 of them.

   Now, I’m not a bad kid- just bored.

   And idle hands are the devil’s handiwork, my mother always likes to tell me that when she picks me up from the police station.

   I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I got blamed for the Shaler barn catching fire 2 summers ago.

   That’s when the whole counseling thing started.

   It was July- hotter than hell.  We’d gotten no rain in weeks and everything was hurting from it.  Every surface was covered in dust, you breathed in more dust than air.  Everyone parked themselves in front of a fan with a huge glass of cold ice tea.

   Even I was lying low and staying out of the sun, except when I was taking my four wheeler through the desert sands.

   But I wasn’t even doing that the day of July 24^th.

edges and scraps.

everything i need to say
to you
is written on the edges
of scraps of paper.

everything i ever needed
is your eyes
and the way you look at me.

i could drink in
that look
forever, and ever.

that look,
is my happily ever after....

but that's on the edges of scraps of paper.
those words are the ones i can't find
when i'm near you.

those are those the words i try not to hear
as i lay alone in my bed,
wishing for your arms around me.

because you aren't my happily ever after.
you are only a dream,
written on
the edges of scraps of paper.

What I was Writing

The perfumed air is the first assault,
followed closely by a bombardment of color.
The sound of this war is water,
and the air is still,
yet not heavy or oppressing.
The air clears away all other thoughts
and you are only left with the peace
this war has won.
Because this war, is the war,
to show how wars are won.
Without guns or oppression,
but rather with perfumed air,
explosions of color
and the peace water brings
as it washes away
   all the hurt
   we have ever known.

         And our hearts
          are restored.

A Highway is a Wonderful Metaphor for Life

Sometimes
you will live
in the fast lane.

Sometimes
the road
will be rough.

Sometimes
you will be
stuck in traffic.

Sometimes
there will be
sudden turns and stops.

      And sometimes
       you'll have to abandon
   your car on the side
      of the road.

                    But eventually,
           you will reach
                         your destination.

A Thought....

   He swept her off her feet and spun in a circle, she was laughing when he set her back down on the ground; her cheeks rosy and her smile lighting up her eyes.  It was the smile he had been waiting to see since he was away.  Her smile was the one that kept him going, that smile kept him alive.
   She stepped back as the others gathered around to greet him, he could feel her eyes on him.  Those bright, curious eyes that were always searching for his.  He met her eyes and she looked away, laughing.
   She was forever laughing.
   He gathered his bags and allowed himself to be swept into the Great Hall where his parents waited for him.  She followed the group quietly, staying to the edges of the room, near the shadows.
   "My Son," his father, Lord Mirchtan, was standing on the dais at the end of the Hall, his mother, Lady Finyala, standing beside him.  "Edard, my son," Mirchtan continued, embracing him.  "How was your journey home?"
   Edard smiled, "Lady Fortune granted me a speedy return Father.  Truly your great forces have changed the tide of the war in our favor."

Written in the Sand

There is a line,

A line no one is supposed to cross.  That’s the way it is, that’s the way it has always been.  But I have crossed the line; I looked at the small town fading away into the background in my review mirror and gunned my engine.

My getaway car was a ’89 white Chevy pick-up truck, the paint was peeling and the gas pedal stuck, but it took gas and went moderately fast… it went fast enough to get me out of this forsaken hole of a town.

Away from the family owned grocery store, away from the bait shop, away from the school and everyone I’ve known for my entire life.  Away from everyone that knows my whole life.

I only stopped for gas, I wasn’t hungry and there was no one to force me to eat.  The highway stretched before me. 

Night.  I was one of the few cars still driving, even the truckers had stopped for the night.  But I wasn’t tired, and I still wasn’t far enough away from that town.

The highway stretched before me in a vast, empty plain.  The stars shone above, and the moon kept me company as I drove.

Maybe I was being unfair; maybe I should give that rotten hole another—

What am I saying?!?  I’ve given that place enough of my life.

I drove.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove.

I sang along with the radio, got some more gas and drank 5 cups of coffee, black.

The sun rose in a pale pink and golden cloud.  Mist covered lakes and the world was waking up.

I drove without a thought.

Without a worry or a care in the world, except where the next gas station was.  The highway was home to me, where I belonged.

I reached the ocean some time the next evening.  The waves were crashing onto the shore.  It was rhythmic and soothing, like driving on the highway.  I parked my truck and got out of the cab.  It felt good to stretch my legs.

I slipped off my shoes and buried my feet in the warm sand.  It was quiet, only the waves and the distant yells of a neighboring beach.  I crossed the sand and went right up to the tide line and watched the wave’s crash onto the shore.  The foamy water splashed my toes, and buried my feet in the cool, wet sand.

I freed myself form the sand and bent down.

I wrote the familiar letters into the cool wet sand, I wrote the name of the stupid town.

I formed the letters quickly, and neatly.

The next wave came,

And the word washed away.

And all that was left was the smooth brown sand.

And there was nothing left of the chains that held me.

pictures.

(6 years teddy bear, and i miss you everyday)

Give me Rain

Give me a love

That burns inside me,

Give me a love

That melts this heart.

tear me to pieces

with just your smile.

Give me a love

that hurts,

Give me a love

that makes me cry,

Give me a love

that makes me think.

Give me a love

That makes me

Laugh

And cry

And give me a pain

That won’t go away

Until I am in your arms.

Life isn’t always

Sunshine and rainbows-

So neither can love.

Give me rain.

Rain will wash away

All the pains

This heart

has managed to hold inside.

Rain will free me,

and let me start over.

Give me a love

That makes me think,

and feel.

Give me a love that gives me

tears.

a beginning

Every piece of literature is a snapshot of its writer.
Its true.
   A writer, every writer, releases a piece of their soul, their mood, their thoughts into their work.  Whether it is only written in a journal or a New York Times best seller, at least one of the characters is a reflection of who the writer wants (or has tried) to be.

   Writing is not to be taken lightly, it is not to be left on the side of the road like a discarded hobby.
It is sophisticated.
Regal.
Ancient.
   And just as important as the day it was first created.