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.