I wish I existedI am just the soundThe old radio playsStatic and songsNeither good nor badNobody notices when it's turned offAnd I wish so hard that I existed.I am just the shadowSitting in the cornerNo eyes see meAs I watch the gamesPool, ping-pong, darts,Shouting, laughterBut no eyes see meAnd I wish so hard that I existedI am just the girlfriendObligatory lumpOn the boyfriend's sideDo his thingsMeet his needsAnd I wish so hard that I existedBut I don't
Imbolic 2007Midwinter's moonlaying lowjust above the treesOpen, full and widespilling lightfilling the whole earthMoondrops roll gentlydripping from the dark breastsand round belliesof the mountainspooling deep in the meadowsHeavy moon-drenched snowweighing the low tree's branches
Finding Beauty 01I was out looking for the perfect violet. I though I had found one, and had just picked it, it's stem sturdy and strong in my hands, when I found Her laying in a bed of fresh green aspen leaves, their round, slightly serrated edges framing the bright fallen-leaf copper of her curling hair. Her pale face peaked in a sharp little chin. Her long, pale lashes fell on round cheeks that shined with the matte glow of a fresh-fallen yellow apple. And then I saw her wings. Transparent as a dragonfly's, they draped gracefully over her narrow back, mingling with the aspen leaves. Each had an infinitely delicate vein system in crystalline-shimmering gold, and where the veins became to small to see, I couldn't really tell if her wing was there until a slight movement made the light refract off them in a golden sparkling rainbow. I could have watched her sleeping forever, but, clumsy I, I stepped on the smallest of dry twigs, snapping it loudly.
I am the WriterI am the writer.With word as my artI draw picturesacross white paper.Smooth sentencesflow like waterfrom my fingertipsacross the keyboardonto a blank screen.I am the writer.With my wordsnations are foundedor crumble.I am the writer!The great mageswait my commandand all their magicis mine to use.It is my decisionwho will live and die,the world waitsholding their breath!I am the writer!And then I wake upand I'm nobody again.
DancingDancing by myselfwearing my favorite jeans and an itty bitty shirtand jasmine perfumewith the music so loudsinging alongwatching myself reflected in the windowand my shadow on the floorbecause there's nobody else aroundand it feels good to be me.But then you're hereand our bodies once as sure as twining snakesare strangersfull of elbows and kneesawkward anglesand blind mistakesmy rhythm is gonethe music lost in meaningless noise.Your eyes find mineand your hands guide my hipsinto a new rhythmgentler than the firstguide me to a music quieterthat only we can hearand we are nothing but two vinesgrowing on the same treeindistinguishable from each other.Then you're gone and by myself againWearing dirty jeans and your green sweatshirtthat still smells like youThe music pounding out of the speakers so loudthe floor shiverswhere my foot counts the beatbiding my timeuntil we can dance together again.
Red RaspberryLook,beneath my dark leavesbeware the thornsFindsweet ruby clustersskin tight and shinyTasteas rich as the earth I grow inas sweet as the sun that feeds meSavorevery drop of juiceas precious as the dawnTakeall you can carryspread my childrenI have given them all I can
I'm A RoseI'm A Rose,If it is to hold me tighttake care,choose the right point,cause I have thorns.I'm A Rose,Don't cut me,because I'll die.
Mia Nihta Yemati HromataΜια Νύχτα Γεμάτη ΧρώματαΉταν εκεί,Η βροχη δεν τον σταμάτησε.Στεκόταν απ' έξω,Κοιτούσε την πόρτα του καφέ,Την σκεφτόταν.Μετά από ώρες περπάτημα,Ήταν εκεί,Την ίδια ώρα,ΑναρρωτιότανΑν εκείνη είν
What I Need?What I Need?Flowers, Chocolate and Love.
MessagesIt started with a text,from him.My heart skipped a beat;every time my eyes,skimmed over that message.Hello,he said.Hi,I said back.The letters began to fly;we talked everyday.It started off,like a tingle.Then exploded;with every text.Saying cute little things,silly love poems.But,he was also there;for the bad times.Where I wanted to cry,he couldn't hold me.No,instead he made me laugh.Nervous.I didn't want to,say it first.Bad relationships in the past;flood my memories.Praying to God;that he isn't like him.But my phone,had the answer.His message,the letters burned in my head:I love you.We wanted to meet,but never had the time.Living two states away;it was impossible.Until that on winter day,when the snowwas just beginning to fall.Someone knocked on my door,I found him with a Christmas present.He stayed the week,lived like husband and wife.Meant to be;but he had to go home.Leaving me alone on News Years,pain filled my heart.I felt alone,
Becoming Your GoddessYou have sculptor's handsand my flesh becomes the claywithin your touch, as youshape my Willendorf curvesI become your Venus.Hold me now like yourPersephone, who waversupon the precipice of this lifeand the netherworld, on the verge,of being ripped away intoeternities of darkness.Your fingers flirt with harp stringslike sweet Orpheus, speakingthe secret language of my heart,and I know you would playthe hymns to sing me backinto your arms.
I'm not telepatheticI'm not telepatheticand you aren't too,because you would knowand you wouldn't be angry with me.Therefor, you're thinking of me too.
With PicturesMy ears are heavy (blue glass stones)My heart twisted (ancient apple tree)Hiding away (rusting chainmail)When I know not whoor whatI want