Love, Lena

 He looked straight ahead and said,
"maybe you won't feel anything,
until you reach the big moments
that used to be filled with her presence.
Like Christmas and birthdays,
Easter, and Mother's Day."
I stared out the window,
as we drove down the highway,
headed for safety,
headed for a hiding place.
And though I'd asked him
a different question,
I knew his answer was the right one,
and the wisest words I'd been offered thence far.
Three months later,
those words stay completely true,
as the lights are up,
the stockings hung,
and I look for something that will never,
ever, be under any tree.

Merry Christmas, momma.

This Is Self-Refuting

I haven't written 
anything of importance. 
Nothing delicate, 
nothing whimsical 
nothing real 
in weeks. 
And tonight, 
to fill this space, 
to stop its idleness, 
I force something out. 
I am dry. 
Barren, like a woman 
who is unable to birth 
something precious. 
And it's not for a lack of trying, 
it's not because I have no 
living inspirations, 
no painful heart cries, 
or past ghosts, 
it's just that my mind
and my heart
and my fingers 
are all at odds. 


I wonder, 
if I've ever written anything of consequence,
or just wasted my time?

Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

November

An extended branch 
from a forlorn soul 
hidden in clouds of 
periwinkle tears 
and silent cries 
that reach my heart here, 
down below
where leaves lie lifeless, 
crippled by sharp cold 
injected into each stem, 
and into my very bones. 
An extended hand 
to one who's only ever 
been beaten back 
by palms and fists 
greater than the heavens, 
(or at least in a child's eyes)
and cried elephant tears 
over aches and scars 
that are only seen beneath
thin, thin skin:
an emotionally malnourished babe. 
And it's only when my mother's eyes
shine back at me from the mirror
that I smile in spite of every 
melancholic bone in my body 
and stop sulking long enough 
to let everything I hold onto 
die like those stone cold leaves, 
and blow away, 
far, far away, 
to those pale clouds, 
where sadness abounds, 
leaving only hope, 
to remain.

Chalk

Startled by my own shadow, 

startled, and shell shocked--

I exist outside of my body, 

but what kind of creature am I?

I feel thin, and my heart weeps, 

as cold wind blows me away, 

I feel thin hearted, and I weep.

The pools of my own perseverance

have been dipped into too often 

and because I forget my place 

in this other-worldy scheme of things, 

I am weary and depleted. 

Creation knows me, 

as the painter of the sidewalk, 

who lays her burdens out 

for the trees and birds to see,

while walking simple streets. 

I am an aching wretch, 

and my skinny heart knows it, 

so I am startled,

by a shadow that does no justice 

to the brute I often become 

inside of my skin, 

but rather it paints me blank

with no wear or tear, 

or damage of any kind. 

I live in hope, 

on the concrete, 
even when I feel none of it 
within me. 

Pleased To Meet You

Allow me to introduce myself,
as aloof and misconstrued
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I search for the right way
to be as aberrant, yet as conventional
as I know myself to be.
Forgive my biting directness,
for I've only tried to show you
that I'm not as predictable as I seem.
See, you've thrown me off,
with your ability to read me
before I've even penned the words
to define my own emotion.
It's hardly fair.
I fight to stay one step ahead,
when I know I've been behind all along,
and you're fully aware, 
and I'm terrible at whatever this is,
but I'm a willing student.
So allow me to introduce myself,
as simple-hearted and deliberate,
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I learn the right way
to be as honest and lovely
as I know myself to be.

My name's Lena.

To Weep

The day the fire came
I wasn't there to pull you out,
you were unable to walk away yourself,
and though I think my intent to be right,
I likely wouldn't been able to save you anyways.
But you knew what you were doing;
you wrote your fate with a black-ink pen,
and signed your name on all the dotted lines,
you signed me over to the ways of the world
without you in it,
and you signed yourself over
to a world I've never seen.
The day the fire came,
I distracted myself with handiwork
and tried not to think
of the box you would come home in,
the tears I longed for you to see,
of the scalding you would feel,
the darkness of your watery eyes,
and the selfishness I harbored
in the bottom of my little heart.

Oh how I wish
I had a gravestone to weep at.

The Swell

And yes,
my chest has been torn open
to expose my little heart
to the weathering of the world,
and to the harshness of its love.
But it was an unwilling surgery
and it was secretly performed
with no sterile instruments;
I am infected.
I am now prone to injury
and agonizing affliction
without warning or heed
that will either cause me disease
or expire me completely.
So thrust is my heart,
into the violent seas
of humanity and grief,
and I am not free to swim away,
but I am forced to drown
in tears bigger than tidal waves,
in air that never fills my lungs.

And no,
none of this is alright with me.

Seven Sisters

Seven sisters
sitting in the center
of my rust-ridden heart,
shining like the light
I only long to be.
I have so much love
pulsing through the blue-red arteries
but it leaks through the holes
of this decrepit little heart.
I hope you see my intentions,
as I try with all my might
to muster up enough emotional stamina
and show you I care
at least a little bit.
I've got stars,
in the middle of my chest,
they've just forgotten what it's like
to paint the night sky.

I've hidden them away,
along with everything else.

Projectors

How do you stand
sitting in all our places,
with people other than me
and forget all the words
that cling to the walls?
And all the tears,
that soak into the fabrics?
And all the tensions,
that still float in the air?
I can't even walk
in and out of these places
without feeling heaviness
a pressing anxiety,
and when I close my eyes,
I see the memories like projector slides.
You slide in and out of my eyes
and I am unable to forget,
unable to wipe you away.
How do you stand it?

If you have a secret method,
I'd love to know what it is.

A Good Shake

What is it that makes you think
that your complacency is acceptable?
Your lack of responsibility
is nothing short of frustrating
and I know the you that is hidden
somewhere in that kind heart
is just as angry as I am.
What I wouldn't give
to reach through and around you,
and just give you a good shake.

I wish common sense
was more common.

Cinders

I wonder if the rain knows

about all my saddest days 

before it paints the ground 

with water that evades

the leftover embers 

that burn in the pit of my heart? 

Those coals are only kept alive 

by the frayed ends of a love 

I've yet to lay aside; 

never perfectly mended 

and never sound asleep.

Every time you walk by 

I resurrect memories of days 

that were better than these;

we smiled like children 

and promised more than we ought

in the sun-kissed snow 

and in the confines of silver trees. 

Now this chilly rain escapes my grasp

while a fire hazard brews 

in the depths of my chest. 

I just need a puddle 

big enough to swim in. 

The Title of this Poem is Used Three Times

What on God's green earth

makes you think it's okay 

for you to finally be a decent man 

when you were despicable with me? 

Your praises sound like rocks 

falling into an empty well, 

hollow and spent 

like every other word 

you ever spoke to me in love. 

You're the faulty clutch 

that has me stalled in the middle 

of a busy intersection 

scrambling for a running engine, 

but left to collide 

with cars on all sides 

as soon as the light turns green. 

And do you not remember 

the endless months 

that you dragged my heart around 

like an unwanted dog

stuck to your leash? 

I remember the green grass, 

the muddy fields, 

the concrete playground 

and every other place 

you brought me to. 

What on earth, 

makes you think it's okay 

to finally be a decent man, 

when you were only a hurtful boy 

with me? 

3:13

Oh to be the one

that heard you snoring in the night, 

to hear you sleep talking, 

your steady breathing, 

and your final hums and has. 

I would give everything 

to have been there at the right time

to see your eyes again, 

but you left me where I was, 

and waited until it was to late. 

Forever is a long time 

to go without you 

and in my selfishness I wish 

that you would've thought of me. 

Wailing by your bedside

with no voice of comfort, 

no warms hands, 

no life-filled words. 

Oh to be the one

that stayed the night and

saw the clock

at 3:13. 

Grown-Up Hide and Seek

a song 

For years I've been trying to see
exactly what you're looking at
and when your eyes shine
I try to find the road map.

Once upon a summer night
you told me that your heart was fine
I stared at you a while
and finally saw your crooked smile.

And I always tried to hold you
a little bit tighter
And I always tried to know you
a little bit better
And I always tried to find you
in all my favourite hiding places
but you were still trying to find me
in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek.

There's nothing like yesterday
is what you'd always say
when covering up your silliness
and awkward mistakes.

And I always tried to hold you 

a little bit tighter 

And I always tried to know you 

a little bit better

And I always tried to find you 

in all my favourite hiding places 

but you were still trying to find me 

in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek. 

The First To Say. . .

Let me be the first to say
that nothing about your eyes,
nothing about your laugh,
nothing about your presence,
is settling.
You push me into corners,
make me run, hide, and cry
for some kind of resolution
when you offer no apology
no remorse,
not even an acknowledgement of my existence.
I loved you,
with the most ardent and earnest love,
and I kept no record of your wrongs,
until you crushed me with your words,
crushed me with your two anxious hands,
and now,
months removed,
my bones are still broken,
my heart is still torn up,
and you walk free, just the same.
Let me be the first to say,
that if you could really understand these eyes,
they'd tell you that this is far from over.

Out Of Me

out of me
comes everything
that's filled my blood
with poison,
with toxins,
and now
with contrition
I speak as though
I've never wanted to sin,
and with fullness
I breathe a breath
that purifies my lungs,
flushes out my veins,
brings water to my eyes,
and buckles my knees.
out of me
comes everything
that I ever set out to be,
and now let it be
nothing.

Embers

You are the whispers
of inadequacy and doubt
that seep into my cerebrum
and rearrange every ordered emotion.
It's like stepping into a library
and ripping all the books from the shelves
and leaving me there
to clean up your mess.
I have a million and one ways
to put you in your place,
to shut up that gaping mouth
and silence you forever,
but the havoc your secrets bring
is too high a cost for your speechlessness.
I repeat
"you're not worth it, you're not worth it"
and pray that my civility
will evolve into scorching embers
that sit on your head.

Arteries

If I could fold you up
like a square piece of paper
and put you in my pocket,
and keep you there forever,
I would never miss you
never struggle against you
or lose you.
I could bend you
to my less-than-divine will
and tear you up
whenever I was unhappy
and I could have complete--
complete control.
I would possess the power
to drop you in the trash,
tear you to pieces,
or fold you up into an airplane
and send you on your way.
But no,
you could never be that bendable,
never be that dispensable,
never be that two-dimensional.
You must be essential
inhabiting my soul
in ways I can't predict or manipulate
rising up like my breath,
keeping time like my heart,
arteries filled with you,
unseen through my skin,
but necessary for my survival.

You're essential.

Daisies

I popped a tire,
on the way down
the train tracks,
that run in front of
the place my heart is home.
I was searching for you,
or at least some trace,
but I knew there was nothing;
no part of you there.
I ditched the bike
in the middle of a field,
and walked the rest of the way--
free as a sparrow,
heavy as stones.
I found a suitable tree,
that reminded me of you,
and nailed my poetry
to it's trunk.
I left you a message,
somewhere in the trees,
that you'll never find,
because though I go
to that place all alone,
I know you never will.

I picked some daisies,
and went home.

Disorder

I starve myself
of every word
that builds my bones
strong with deceit
until I can see
my skeleton
through thin skin.
I throw up
every empty praise
and every lie
ever said to me
without sincerity
to purge myself
of the vanity that
hugs my frame.
I will become
a shadow of
who you've built me to be,
in order to die
to the "me" that requires
your words to survive.
Whether you praise or you judge,
you are unnecessary to me;
there's only One,
who has the perfect words.

Amber

You have
amber irises,
like the little pendant
around my neck,
that you always asked about.
I have forgotten you,
dear friend, distant dream,
forever-ago love.
But when I see
your eyes,
easy, and familiar,
unsteady and wild,
I remember it all.
Holding your nervous hands,
kissing your rough cheek,
capturing your lofty promises,
and waiting, for you to leave.
See, I fought tooth and nail
to be the apple
of those amber irises,
but it just wasn't enough,
to keep you
from turning your gaze
elsewhere.

Goodbye.

Birdcage

Open up your chest 

to show me there's something

still beating in there. 

Behind your birdcage 

made of bones, 

has your lovebird 

died or flown free?

Did you clip it's wings, 

and stop it 

from singing? 

Because when we speak 

there's no words 

and when we run, 

there's no speed;

just silent glances, 

just stagnant motions, 

that mean nothing.

Your hands are cold, 

your eyes are empty, 

and your smile 

is dull. 

Where is your heart? 

Crux

Today I wear blue
like the sun wears it's light,
unable to be hidden,
and all over my face.
I'm tired
of pretending to be
any other colour
but pacific ocean,
night sky,
his eyes-- blue.
I'm tired, of giving yellow smiles
to people with their eyes closed,
and understating my heart
to ease the guilt you get
from breaking it.
I'm indigo,
with little stars in me,
that explode into super novas,
with galaxies in my chest,
and meteors in my mouth.
I'm the fifth colour
of the rainbow
painted in your skies;
the borderline,
between the warm and the cold.
I'm on the line.

I'm always right on the line.

Orange

She dreamt of him in hughes of colour that only seem to make sense when her eyes were closed. When she woke up, it was like he was swept away by the sunlight. She could try to hold on to him all she wanted, but she knew it was no use. He was familiar and warm, but unplaceable.

She filed him in the back of her mind and remained in mediocrity. She worked like everyone else, rode the bus like everyone else, and lived her life like everyone else. People passed in and out of her life constantly; nothing was ever the same way twice. She'd met plenty of men. Plenty decent, good-hearted, worthy men. But there was always something wrong. Something always felt wrong. She hadn't meant him yet. The one that would feel like an old friend, yet a new stranger. The one that would finally make sense in the daylight. He would no longer be a fragmented dream.

There was something about the way he was with her, when she was dreaming, that made her believe that she would meet him in the real world. Something about his words, and his movements mesmerized her. She could tell that he loved her. Unreachable and unknown as he may be, she knew that much.

And even if he wasn't real, even if they would never meet, she held hope in her heart that the feeling was real. She had hope that one day, she would feel the way she felt when she was dreaming. She could have the confidence to believe that someone, somewhere would be as familiar as the dreams she dreamt every night.

She believed it, with all of her might.

Green Button

I make up reasons
to dial his number,
to say that I'm sorry,
or just to say goodbye,
so I can justify
this stupid decision
to myself once I've hung up
and thought it through.
I'll claim good intentions,
when really,
I just wanted to feel
close, wanted, and loved again.
I have no good intentions,
just selfish wishes
to rewind the time
for a few minutes.
Truth is,
I don't want to go back,
I don't want to restart,
I just want to feel that way
one more time.
And there's nothing in the world
that can make that okay,
and nothing I can tell myself
to ease my conscience.
So before I pick up the phone
and press that Green button
I think of what I'm doing
and who I'm doing it to.

I put the phone on the cradle,
and step away.

Ask

I guess there's no point
in expecting to live a dream
when nothing ever really
comes close.
And I guess there's no point
in hoping for the best,
because hopes and expectations
always fall through.
But I tried my best,
to harness some courage
to see what I could see
in you.
I never accounted for
the fact that it is necessary
for you look for me
too.
I guess there's no point
in telling someone about yourself
if they never even ask
how you're doing.

I Conclude (For Now...)

I conclude, 

to try my damnedest 

to work this out 

on my own. 

Without even 

opening my mouth 

to ask you 

for help. 

You see, 

I'm such a coward

and a little self-concious, 

because losing you 

in any way 

would be devastating. 

I'm sorry. 

Summer Dreams

I had dreams
of catching bugs in jars
on weeknights, after work
and mapping stars
and telling each other their stories
while drinking cheap wine
because at least it's classier
than drinking cheap beer.
Dreams, of day trips
and late nights
writing delicate words
and catchy melodies
after watching Molly and the gang,
and nursing hand cramps
induced by video game controllers.
Dreams that were dreamt
with you in mind,
(obviously)
and now I can't bring myself
to fulfill them single handedly,
so I aimlessly search
for my dream four-leaf-clover
to bring me some hope
that things will turn around.
But for now all I dream
about are the things you do
without me,
because I have no courage
and no perfect words
to tell you that
I don't want to catch fireflies
with anyone else but you.

Make That 41

I've got a collection
of half-pages
maybe even 3-quarter-pages,
addressed to you.
I swear I must have 40 or more.
I start the same way,
with something funny,
hoping to get you smiling,
and then I start from the beginning.
I try to describe
what's been going on
and why I haven't told you before,
and what exactly my heart feels.
I try to be sweet,
I try to be poetic,
I try to say something
that won't sound ridiculous.
And it's when I get
to a certain point
that I read it all over,
judging every word,
erasing and rewriting,
trying to craft the perfect way
to say that

Who He Says I Am

I'm one of those people,
who thinks things through
and then thinks them again,
picking apart each word,
each motive behind each word,
along with every tone,
ups and downs in voices
to piece together some knowledge
about something that's likely
not even there.
I take that "based on nothing" knowledge
and stir it around in my little head,
imposing it on myself
like a doctor, writing a prescription
until it takes over.
And it's only when I realize
that this little seed has been planted
for no reason at all,
that I try to uproot it
to replace it with truth.
But it's like trying to reattach
a lock of hair, after its been cut;
there is no sure way of undoing it.
If only I realized
that I am who I am
totally aside from any one else's
words, thoughts, feelings, experiences,
and saw truth
in who He says I am.

I will long to see the truth,
in who He says I am.

Keys

Dear You,

Often I worry, that this old house
is too big for you to find me in,
and that you'll give up
for an easier venture,
rather than pursuing after me.

And sometimes I worry
that the windows of my history
that still remain open
will cause too much of a draft
for you to be happy here.

Will my love letters,
and my loyal devotion
be enough for a man
who will see all my brokenness,
and who know my every fear?

Will the rooms be big enough
for you to feel at home,
inside this old house of a heart,
that I've invited you into,
not to visit, but to live?

Will you see my haunting memories
as heavy bags to carry,
or beautiful stories
of victories much bigger than myself,
that you are privileged to share?

Oh I must believe,
that you will find me,
and find me lovely.
And I will find you worthy
of a set of keys

to this heart.

Love, Me.

Mental Anguish

Anguish, like having what you want
right at your finger tips,
yet having no way to take hold of it,
is pulsing through my body.
It takes over my senses,
latching onto my blood cells,
stealing my deep breath,
tainting my innocent laughter,
weakening my limbs,
colouring my skin,
and it makes me mental.

Mental.

Shadows

The wind dances a shadow
of where you once stood
next to me with your teddy eyes,
smiling like a little child.

The dust spins a whisper
of your four letter name,
that used to leave my lips
with the sweetest taste.

The leaves fall in a melody,
to the tune of your last song
that I sang for days and days,
after you taught me how it was sung.

Now the rain paints pictures
of all our still-framed memories
that will never get hung;
they're just rinsed clean away.

It's not for lack of trying,
that you're fading with every second,
but an unforgettable pain
that you injected in my skin.

And the poison mixes and blends
with the water from my heart
until I can only see your shadow,
dancing, in the wind.

Conundrum

Why is it,
that I can hear you stirring
at one in the morning,
when you said you'd be sleeping?
But rather,
you're awake in my mind,
racing about, mad,
with the sense you steal from my heart.
I was told,
to follow my heart,
but to listen to my head,
because the latter deserves more trust,
but you sleepwalk in both.
I am not rid of you.
So I am trapped,
with the conundrum of
figuring us out.
Because we are
a difficult and confusing question,
that I have only ventured to answer,
after failing at everything else.

What are we?

One Day

They sit in the front seat 

after a pleasant evening 

of friendship and laughter, 

as typical as any. 

And on the way home, 

they share hopes for the future, 

and she listens to him dream

while she quietly dreams too. 

His eyes cannot see

through the glaze that covers 

her little brown irises, 

brimming with smiles, 

as she says a quick lie 

to hide a small truth 

that she accidentally let slip. 

Just as well, 

since he hasn't a clue 

that she's hidden things from him 

for what's turned into years now. 

She always meant well, 

and didn't see the point 

in ruining something 

that would never be more.

All her accidental truths 

have become hardly accidental 

because her silenced heart 

is screaming to tell him 

that every time she quiets her mind, 

her thoughts always go back 

yes, her thoughts always go back, 

to him. 

"One day", 

she says to herself 

as she steps out of the car 

and walks to her front door. 

"One day", 

she prays to her God 

as she crawls into bed, 

and gives everything up to the sky.

4am Honesty

I find it painfully funny
that I haven't spoken to you
in weeks now
yet you still have this way
of making me feel worthless.
Just hearing
of every uneven story,
every feeling you lied about,
makes me want to break
all my own rules,
just to raise hell.
But it doesn't make sense,
that this little green monster
lives inside a heart that is set
on moving on,
because I want to move on.
But I remember how we began,
innocently enough,
but your god
just couldn't make it work.
But now,
you seem to be sure
that a slighter,
lesser, shadow of me
(all pride aside, I swear)
is more than enough
for you to initiate something?
For you to use every tactic
and good relationship sense,
that I taught you?


Oh, Please.

Problem

The problem with you 

is you're entirely to close 

for me to make any sort of 

life-altering choice. 

Because the outcomes 

no longer remain with just me, 

but they seep into your story too, 

and there's no undoing that. 

The problem with you 

is that you're terribly too smart

for your own damn good 

and you know it. 

You can understand me 

like others simply can't, 

and I can't decide 

if I hate you or love you for it. 

The problem with me, 

is that I'm entirely to afraid 

of ruining everything I love

because of my own foolish heart. 

The problem with me, 

is that I'm entirely too close 

to you to be objective

and there's no undoing that. 

Flying Conditions

The eye already knew
what the heart was leaning towards, 
and when that desire was beheld, 
the mind could hardly conceive it. 
There had to be secrecy involved, 
because if the mouth found out, 
the tongue would become traitorous, 
and give everything away. 
This inkling, this heart-stir, 
could go one of two ways: 
it could fall like a helpless robin from the nest
or fly away into the warm summer sun
but only in its proper season. 
So the eye is sure to be careful, 
while the heart guards itself, 
and the mind simply decides, 
to keep it's mouth shut
until the spring rain and summer heat
make for the most amiable flying conditions.

Bouquets

Bouquets of lost steps
sit on my night table.
I haven't watered them
in what seems like days now.
They are wilted little impressions
of dry and dusty ground.
I used to walk with you
when we were younger,
and in bloom
but I cut those steps
from the ground
to place in my vase.
I wanted them to sing me to sleep.
Maybe I knew
that you'd eventually stop walking
and wanted to preserve
one small thing before you did.
But even my sunny hope
couldn't stop the truth
from making those steps lost.
Like flowers, dead now.
Steps, dead now.

You're dead now.

Held Up

He's held up 

by what seems to be

his own thoughts. 

Racing and whirring, 

like the wind 

over the flat fields. 

He has choices

but none of them are easy 

either way, things will change. 

She's held up

by what seems to be 

her own fears. 

Rushing and stirring 

her poor little heart, 

like rain on young flowers. 

She has a voice, 

but holds silence, 

because speaking up never worked before. 

They sit side by each 

and say nice things, 

yet all the while 

the things they want to say 

go again, unsaid. 

They're held up. 

Box/Name/Question Mark

I will drudge up 

an old metaphor 

that I've used for months

without telling you, 

to show you exactly 

what has gone on

in this little heart. 

Under a bed

in a box, 

with a padlock 

wrapped in chains, 

is your name

a question mark, 

and everything I feel. 

It's been sitting there

for what has turned into years, 

because I have no idea

what could happen

if I told you about it. 

I just keep that box

under that bed

and wait. 

Maybe one of these days, 

I'll be brave enough to show it to you. 

Extension

Dial tone

in my ear 

droning on 

like a fire alarm. 

Hovering fingers

over numbered buttons

pressing 1, 

because you're long-distance. 

A voice 

asks for an extension 

I stop, shocked 

that I got this far. 

Slam 

goes the phone

back in it's cradle 

back where it belongs. 

I return 

to my bed

to scold myself

for even considering this. 

"If I were stronger", I say. 

But I'm not. 

Steelesview

I went there today.
To that little alcove
beside the playground.

It was cold,
and children were playing, laughing,
smiling. Like we would.

I hadn't the time to stop
to soak in each memory
that is held there.

I walked on.

But I remember
that windy night.
We were scared.

Our fears are soaked
into the red bricks
and the heavy doors.

We couldn't defeat them.
And though you held me,
we were blown away in that wind.

I walked on.

Funeral for a Friend

I'm in my Sunday best.

it's raining, 

just like it would 

on an occasion such as this. 

There are no flowers, 

or little candles 

to usher you out,

and no commemorative picture 

of a smiling and eager face. 

There are no sweet poems 

or small speeches, 

no awards, 

no songs, 

just a box. 

Just a hole and some mud

with a shovel at the ready.

And when I look around, 

I don't see anyone else.

It's just you and I my friend, 

like it used to be, 

and though the time is coming 

to tuck you in and cover you up, 

I won't walk away, 

until I'm ready. 

I'm not ready yet. 

Aconite

You weren't my lilac 
cut from the tree
on the eve of summer, 
that I treasure for days, 
smiling like a child. 

You were the winter aconite 
hidden on the bottom 
of the forest floor, 
that I held in my hand 
for at least a little while. 

You caught my eye. 
You were yellow 
like the grin on my face, 
and you were delicate. 
I could strengthen you. 

I held up your beauty 
for a while, in my hands 
like Atlas and the world. 
You were heavy. 
Too heavy. 

I plucked off
all your little petals 
and let you fall 
back to that floor
that I salvaged you from. 


I whispered "he loves me not" 
and walked away. 

Red Herring

I am bent
on writing something
you won't decode.
you never know,
when I will slip in
a little hint,
a little red herring.

I am bent,
on unpredictability
you won't predict.
eat your heart out,
trying to untangle
the threads;
the secret words.

From now on
deciphering me
will not be half as easy
as you make it seem.

Wild One

My bones long for the
incongruity of tomorrow,
to be aligned with chaos,
to be forced to be free.
Because even today
I have already conformed,
to the linear systems,
to the obligatory movements.
Is it really so much to ask for?
For a little bit of unevenness?
to be unleashed upon the world,
to be left to my own devices.
Not with the intention
of forsaking all the virtues, but,
to be wild, like the wind,
to be bold, like the lion.
My bones long for the
ability to break and mend,
to be beautifully untamed,
and to be carefully unkept.

I always knew,
there was a wild one inside me.

Pride

Folly rose up
from the miry ground
to greet our hopes
with some obnoxious mockery
and when we declared
that victory would be ours,
Folly called our bluff,
and told us of our pride.
Neither of us thought
anything of our confidence,
until our less-than-friendly foe
attacked us from behind.

Seems we lost this one, friend.

Shine

No,
no longer do I subscribe
to the late night television guide
where I feed my mind
lie upon lie
only to get through another night
only to get by
without trusting in a Father's light
so bright
in my small, yet wide eyes
and I will call it like I see it.
A fear I hide
away like a small, silent cry
that I'd cry and cry
as every sense of security walked out of my life
and into the hands of a crafted lie
that I am nothing in His sight
but rejected.
And I will claim my right
in my Christ who abides
and never hides,
this love and knowledge of me, infinite
like an ocean tide
that sweeps aside
every father's sin, and father's lie
until I remove my eyes
from an image of pride
and see a Father who has never tried
to do anything but set me apart.
No,
no longer do I subscribe
to a late night television guide
filled with such a temporary guise,
a ruse disguised
as a love that just hides.
Real love doesn't hide,
it shines.

Thanatos

Tortured sleep, and the clock drives forward, 
wind howls past an open window, 
shivers leave lips that were once so warm. 
The sun will never light this face, 
so darkened by the looming past,
so weathered by the pain. 
Rolling closer to the edge, 
restless, and out of touch, 
hands grip the covers, 
wishing to hold on to this temporary safety.
The deepest truths of the heart, 
rise to the forefront in this vulnerable moment. 

Death fills the blanks of this mind, 
as irrational temptations threaten to reign, 
roll over again, eyes flickering with each scene, 
replayed in sequence, like a movie on a silver screen, 
waiting to devour sanity, with the power to control. 
Manipulated by a power known to none, 
experiences used as weapons, like some cruel joke, 
torture, rather than peaceful acceptance, 
and nothing but surrender and submission are left. 
One clear voice speaks for one small second, like a whisper: 
"I think insomnia was easier", 
and yes, maybe it was. 

How hard it is to forget. 
Harder still is remembering.

2:54

I'm back
to hating again,
to hating the very hope
that used to give love.
and I can't believe
that the fire wasn't enough
to deter me from this.
My mind has not be kind
even though I've asked it to,
and my heart hasn't listened
to my reasoning, to my concern.
I don't care if it's still up in the air,
I don't care if it's still up for debate...
it's breaking my heart,
and hurting my eyes,
and stealing my sleep.

I'm just so tired.

Secret in a Book

I wrote down a secret,
on some old receipt paper,
and slipped it into a book,
for someone else to find.
Though I know,
you'll never be the one to find it,
I can rest easy,
knowing that even if you did,
I'd be okay with that.
What an interesting story,
I have found myself living. . .

Your Bones

I live in the city, 

of your last known address; 

wandering the same streets, 

sitting in the same coffee shops, 

and asking the same questions. 

I wonder if it's your birthday today?

Sometimes I like to think, 

that when it rains,

we both wear raincoats, 

and when it's bright, 

we both wear smiles. 

Are our smiles the same?

I wonder if you would know, 

who I was if I walked past you, 

if you'd see your flesh and bones, 

your eyes, your nose, your mouth, 

or just another passing face. 

We may share many things in this city, 

but one thing we don't share, 

is a mutual knowledge of each other's existence. 

To you, I don't even exist. 

Dandelions Are Not Flowers

These misconceptions are rather lovely this time of year, 
and I am content to lay in these fields filled with your broken spirt. 
Your eyes pass over me, as if I am not even laying here, 
and I think its so painfully wonderful, 
that this happens everytime I find myself in this place. 
Every time, I say to much, reveal to much, 
and I am left to soak in my own scorn, 
cheeks hot from the embarassment. 
Allow me to introduce myself, 
I am the one person you will never expect,
the one person you will be able to pick out of any crowd, 
so misfited, so foreign. 

Shut up silent wind, 
shut up. 

I am quite aware of my fate, aware of this predestiny, 
so why must you remind me so mockingly?
These flowers are like fools gold,
the colour of a mid-day sun, 
standing tall in their glory, 
yet these flowers are nothing but weeds in the garden, 
taking up the life of the beautiful. 
Am I just a dandelion? Eating the life of the beautiful?
Dandelions are not flowers. 

Shut up silent wind, 
Shut up.

Seconds

This is another poem from one of my old poetry books. I wanted to post this one because it's so different from how I write now, yet I still love this kind of writing. Again, let me know what you think ! 


No vacancy, 
no place, no room, 
empty, yet full, 
turned away, like every other time. 
Lights off, dark halls, 
empty graves, hollow words, 
desolate, a place to call home, 
among the homeless and the fatherless; 
rest in peace. 
Far across from the corners of this emptiness, 
drawn from the black rivers, 
hung from the dead branches, 
are pieces of the puzzle, 
out of reach, undiscovered. 
Names and dates, 
faces and answers, 
fleeting. 
Ever so fleeting. 
Just like the time, 
now, now, now, now, now, 
You've failed me now. 
And now. 
fleeting...
and now. 

Hollywood and Harlequin

This poem is from an old poetry book I had at the beginning of high school. It shows a very different style than what I write in now, which I find very interesting! Let me know what you think of the 14/15 year old Lena's poetry! 


Hopeless romantic idiocies rage and release,
And automatic responses seem so complex,
and when the things you love slip away,
what does love become?
Harlequin fiction tied with a bow?
Desire and circumstance, bundled? --I'll pass.
Love conquers all?
Then why does it fail more times than not?
When Cinderella thinks she can have her prince,
Failure is inevitable, but no one sees.
When greed pushes away all good intent,
who is there to forgive and forget?
When did love become plastic? drastic? fantastic?
What ever happened to truth?
When you can love someone through obligation,
what becomes of your definition of love?
When love is supposed to be unconditional,
what happens when it's unrequited instead?
How much am I paying for this so-called luxury?
When the price of real love became to high,
we decided to stop paying.
Lust and emptiness walk hand in hand,
down death row they lead.
In this world of one-night-stands,
hooking up, rather than commitment,
and obligated love that is supposed to complete,
what can I trust?

It's the question of the century.

Fabric

We wove the wool
tight around the loom,
moving our raw fingers
back and forth, back and forth.

Laughing as we worked,
we wove our joy
and our delicate hope,
into the fabric of "us".

It wasn't until
your fingers got tired,
and your will became weary,
that I began to fear.

You used excuses
to avoid continuing,
as I toiled and fought,
to perserve our handiwork.

It wasn't until
you stopped weaving,
that I realized
our project was finished.

I took the fabric
off the old loom,
and cried,
as I unravelled it.

We wove the wool,
tight around the loom,
but not tight enough,
to hold "us" together.

Little Feet

Little feet,
how you like to wander
down the hallways
down the stairways,
into breezeways,
and out to driveways.
How you love
to lead me to the places
that I need to go,
don't need to go,
and don't want to go.
Little feet,
You are so little,
doning your little blue shoes,
taking little blue steps,
yet you take me so much farther
then I ever would have thought,
or known,
or imagined.
And I want you to know,
my little, little feet,
that though we disagree
on where we should be going,
I'll be thankful,
for even your missteps.

Thank you.

Hypochondria

My name is hypochondria,

And I swear,
that my clammy hands,
and my palpitating heart,
are clear signs
that my heart is stopping.
And my closing throat,
and my want for sleep,
is alerting me
to some kind of cancer,
growing, and spreading.

The more I sit here,
the more ailments I count,
and the more I worry,
the more my worrying sickens me.
I live in a circle,
only every once and a while,
where I'm afraid of my fears.
And it's only when
I realize that I'm fine,
that I am free.

Vultures

In this brain
with its rights
and lefts
I am circling
looking
and searching
for one way out.
I come back
to the same ruins
over and over
hovering around
all my losses,
failures, and mistakes.
A shameful reminder,
a torture I bring upon myself,
yet I can't stop.
I yearn for escape,
but it's my own fixation
that traps me.
How I long to break
all these things
that hold me
to these messy,
overwhelming,
smouldering, piles
of reminders.

How I long for selective memory.

Red Ribbon

His eyes are dull
like the skies
after the sun hides,
and this isn't the first time
he's tripped over
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
But this time,
he can't point his finger
at any other traitor
but himself.

Her hands are dry
like a parched land
after a long drought,
and this is the last time
she'll overlook
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
There is no time
for blind eyes
and the only blind one
has been herself.

Oh, the dangers that arise from being imperfect in love.

Pearls to the Swine

This is a poem I wrote almost a year ago. I wanted to post it not because it reflects where I'm at right now, but because it reminds me of where I was. Enjoy. 


It's not that I don't listen, 
Or that I don't respect what you have to say, 
It's just that I'm so set in my ways,
Predisposed to disobey, 
When obedience would save me so much heart ache. 
And it's not that I don't seek your voice, 
Because all I want is to hear you, 
It's just that I've been lied to for so long, 
That I often forget what the truth sounds like. 
Beaten back, left for dead, sink or swim, 
I've lived, fighting to find you, 
And now that I have, I feel more lost and before. 
I can talk about the darkest things I've seen, 
With a perfectly straight face, 
I can pretend to be vulnerable, 
When the walls are only getting higher. 
Yet I can praise you for it all, 
Even when I feel like walking away. 
And at the end of the day, 
When I can hear you over everything else, 
I realize that all this time, 
I've been throwing my pearls to the swine. 
You deserve better than that, 
Much, much better. 

Davy Jones

Reconciling you
with the you you used to be
has become my only task.
My heart fills to the brim
with confusion, with thoughts
and my eyes see what they want
and my ears hear what they need to,
while my heart feels
everything, simultaneously.
My mouth doesn't want to talk
my mind doesn't want to think,
and my heart doesn't want to feel.

Yet I harbour this ship,
constantly sitting in my port,
carrying everything I've had,
along with everything I've lost,
with no hope of leaving,
but yet it's never really here.
A captain who can't decide
and I, as uncertain as the tide,
unable to hide the emotions
from our sea-worn faces.
We are drifting here,
through storm and calm,
just drifting here.

We have no other choice.

62 .4 .8

We love
like we have to,
rather than chose to,
with obligation
lacing our seemingly
good intentions.
And we love
like we know
what it means to love,
like we penned
the term and definition
ourselves.
We love
with greedy hearts
that look selfless,
and we wander,
looking for gain,
rather than for good.
And we love
by what we say
and what we do
and feel it
in what we hear
and what we get.
We love
as if we know
what it means,
and as if it's enough,
but we forget that love,
is not a word or a feeling.

He's the Creator of Heaven and Earth.

Lite-Brite

Carefully I spoke
as if my words
were like weapons,
each syllable acting
as a gun or a knife,
until I quietly resolved
to remain silent.
Hurting you,
would be unthinkable,
unforgivable,
and my little heart,
and my sad eyes,
couldn't bear to see it.
I wish so much
to speak to you
words of love,
and unshakeable truth,
but with depravity
slipping down my tongue,
and falling from my lips,
I fail.

Oh how I wish,
that all my words were bright.

Welcome

"Welcome home"

echoes in my ears 

as our car pulls in

to the snow-dusted driveway. 

And the stars are uncovered, 

because the clouds are away, 

and it's with tired eyes

that I behold them. 

My feet are wet 

from all the slush, 

and I regret wearing summer shoes 

in the middle of February. 

But what matters most

as I walk through the garage 

is that I am here, 

and the miles separate. 

I am welcomed home, 

by what is known 

and by what is old 

nothing new, 

nothing has changed, 

and in this season 

where nothing is constant, 

"home" is what I need. 

Maybe I'll smile. 

I Wish These Words Were Mine Sometimes...

O LORD,
No day of my life has passed that has not proved me guilty in thy sight.
Prayers have been uttered from a prayerless heart;
Praise has been often praiseless sound;
My best services are filthy rags.
Blessed Jesus, let me find a covert in thy appeasing wounds.
Though my sins rise to heaven thy merits soar above them;
Though unrighteousness weighs me down to hell,
              thy righteousness exalts me to thy throne.
All things in me call for my rejection,
All thing in thee plead my acceptance.
I appeal from the throne of perfect justice
              to thy throne of boundless grace.
Grant me to hear thy voice assuring me:
              that by thy stripes I am healed,
              that thou wast bruised for my iniquities,
              that thou hast been made sin for me
              that I might be righteous in thee,
              that my grievous sins, my manifold sins, are all forgiven,
                     buried in the ocean of they concealing blood.
I am guilty, but pardoned,
        lost, but saved,
        wandering, but found,
        sinning, but cleansed.
Give me perpetual broken-heartedness,
Keep me always clinging to thy cross,
Flood me every moment with descending grace,
Open to me the springs of divine knowledge,
          sparkling like crystal,
          flowing clear and unsullied
               through my wilderness of life.

-- "The Broken Heart",  The Valley of Vision, Puritan Prayers

Night

Black grass, smoldering eyes, 
Dancing in the fields, inhibitions in the stars, 
Far away and distant, free and careless, 
More alive with each breath than ever before. 

The stars make their ladles and their belts, 
And through my fingers they seem so close, 
Yet as the planes cut the sky, 
Suddenly, the world is small. 

Claustrophobia takes captive my heart, 
And I feel like I'm bursting at the seams,
Contentment in the simple sky, 
The world seems safe in this lone moment. 

Night has taken over my heart, 
And I would stay forever here, 
Because never have I seen such beauty, 
And never, have I felt so loved.

The Way of Progress

City lights take over the rural soul, 
Eating the history and swallowing it whole, 
Gulping it down like foul-tasting medicine, 
Until there is nothing left of how things used to be. 

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

Concrete fills the veins of the roots beneath, 
Murder, from the inside out, of a once live creation, 
Then they put machines over top of the nature, 
And they call it "progress". 

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

They flock to their handiwork like bees to honey, 
Praising themselves for a job well done, 
Until there is no life outside the walls of this city. 
Only more walls, built in the name of betterment.

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

They are not alive, 
They are part of a world against living.
They are part of a world that promotes death
In the most painful way possible -- separation. 

There is nothing left. 

Liturgy

I am no longer my own, but Yours. 

Use me as You choose, 

rank me alongside whoever You choose;

put me to doing, put me to suffering;

let me be employed for You, or laid aside for You, 

raised up for You, or brought low for You;

let me be full, let me be empty;

let me have all things, let me have nothing; 

with my whole heart I freely choose to yield 

all things to Your ordering and approval. 

So now, God of glory, 

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, 

You are mine, and I am Your own. 

So be it. 

And the covenant which I have made on earth, 

let it be ratified in heaven. 

Amen. 

-- From the Valley of Vision Puritan Prayers