No longer here.

I have a new place. It is called maritelise.com

You can find me there, now.


Is this not beautifully phrased tragic truth?



As if it had already happened.  As if whatever was disappearing had already disappeared.  As if it was too late.  As if it was already over.  And no one saw it go.  This country this experiment, America, this hubris: what a lament, if no one saw it go.  Here today, gone tomorrow.  Dissipation is actually much worse than cataclysm.

-Tracey Letts’s Pulitzer Prize winning play August: Osage County


This beautiful piece of writing is splashed throughout with the imagery and words of the below piece of lyrical beauty.
The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Online text © 1998-2009 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From The Hollow Men | 1925


Paula Pengelley’s Hollow Men


i was intrigued.


A Stream of consciousness

We walk and talk and
        play on the swings.
I want to spend my days with you.  We make 
Really Good Friends.
Pondering in philosophy class,
      annoyed by the thought that

(everytime the thought comes up)
but also when you seem to
want only me.  (because what if you need me instead of wanting me?)
I want to run and dance and ignore
that other personality that makes me
           Second Guess
And avoid and annoys
me and causes me to cry 
  in the dark.
And regret it.
And I'm regretting.  right now.
regretting not using the rest room before
Modern Philosophy and
wondering...what      makes     it     so    very    hard   to  think about anything other thanhowfullmybladderis. Sometimes
P is contained in S
and the predicate is
of the subject like triangles have 
3 sides
Bachelors are unmarried.  But sometimes
pee is barely contained in my bladder and Modern Philosophy


The differences between us.

Short-skirted, smiling, she could be cute.
I would have thought she was, until I knew about you.  

Pink waterbottle on the 4th desk in the 2nd row.

Falling faster.  Dozing.  AWAKE.
   Black & yellowed pages
            blurring to a warm sloppy gray.  Words.
Unawares introducing a 
t o t a l  s k e p t i c i s m
into the most essential articles of natural and revealed
theology. What!
Modern Philosophy blurs
into dreams
...no decisive proofs can ever be produced
against this authority.
THE WHOLE SYSTEM of a religion on a 
Point   . 
which from its very nature must 
forever be

the nature of time defined

--Pale hand holding purple pen.
--Her voice is very constant.  Constantly loud.  
--my hand still reads vaguely: Call J. Allsup @ 1:35. in Blue Ink.  Check.  
--my fingernails need trimming, my lips need chapstick and I need to define what is going on in my mind because I want to know that I don't just want this to have a this I need to want this because I want THIS this not just anyone but exactly that one.  Exactly you.  And it's gotta be forever.  
--umpteen distinctions and not enough care taken.
--two hairties and a pink ribbon; left.  An old scar still healing; right.
--in 30 minutes I am going to be eating a dinosaur burger in the past.


You caught my eye. Attracted my attention.
And i wondered if you noticed me back.
You are so much warmer to me now than even before;
you seem to want my eyes to meet yours;
you seem to go out of your way to see me,
to catch my glance.

But I might be delusional.

This is for you because, really, above and beyond the odds, I'll miss you if you ever leave. But if you stay, I might just fall in love. So run. Run fast.


On oldness and cake

As I pulled my chocolate cake creation out of the oven I was struck by a realization:
Tomorrow I officially cross the two-decade mark. I become old, by my old standards.
I will never again be a teenager. I will have entered into the unknown.

...And I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I can't believe how much I still have to learn and experience and be.
I thought I'd have a pretty good handle on the whole being a human bit by this point.
Apparently not.

I almost cried when I realized how different life is from my childhood expectations.
And I almost cried when I realized that I can never go back.
But then I laughed out loud instead.
Because it's ok.

And I'm pretty sure I can still live and dream and wish and be and flat out delight in life at the ripe old age of twenty.

Age is just a number and it has no real bearing on who I am or what I do and besides, there's nothing I can do about it!

The chocolate cake cooling on my dresser, on the other hand... Well, excuse me while I do something about that!


Stressed much?

And...keep going.
And...get over the need for perfection.
Learn to live without the ever-present weight of worry.
Be alive in the now.
Give up the hassles. Hand over the pessimism.
Give it up, let it go and dance in the rain.
Blow bubbles on cloudless afternoons.
Tell jokes.
Don't be afraid of making a fool of yourself.
Be afraid of missing an oppertunity to make life memorable.


3:21 am

Walk through empty streets as pale streetlights peer down through the misty morning air.
Fade from life into eternity's gaze. I walk with angels.
Disguised by the sprinklers and caught by the wet grass, seeping through my clothing and into my soul.
The tears of heaven fall.


And then maybe

I can't answer my question: Why do I feel so numb?
I thought there was something there...
And then I thought you just liked being with me.
And I pondered whether I felt about you how I thought you felt about me.
Then I wondered if you do like being with me.
And I wondered if I really cared.
And then I decided that maybe you don't have a particular affinity for my company and I thought that was ok because I decided that maybe I didn't have a desire for yours either.
And then I wondered if anyone really does or if maybe they merely tolerate me like I tolerate so many of them.
And my confidence hit an all-day low but I didn't really care.
I'm somehow immune to the sting that kind of question might normally have on my psyche.
And maybe I don't believe that what I thought I felt was ever true.
Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe I just over-analyze life..
Maybe I'm too passive or asexual or something.
But...maybe I'm over you.


Someone told me it's all happening at the zoo.

Felt the need to put up a sign for the cage full of men working.  = )

The sloth.  A-freakin-Mazing!

There's a giraffe behind that pole.  No, I'm serious!  and he's super awesome, too.
Evin and the gumball sno-cone that I ended up digging through with my afterwards very sticky fingers to find the gumball for him once he got tired of the sno bit.  
Flamingos.  They're swimming.  Yep, true story.  Not even kidding.

Torn limb from limb in the Big Cat House, Como Zoo

On Friday, July 25th, Maritelise Langley was tragically torn limb from limb in the big-cat house at Como Zoo, St. Paul, MN.  Langley, a full-time Nanny, was visiting the zoo with Colin & Evin, her young charges.  Around 1:30 pm, they were in the Big-cat house when Colin decided he wanted to look at the Snow leopard and Evin the Lions.  Marit was between the two, holding their hands and, unfortunately for her, these particular sets of felines were on opposite sides of the Zoo-building.
Services will be held by the Seal Tank in two weeks, after which her ashes will be scattered to the wind in the outdoor observatory area of the Lion Cage.


Good Humor doesn't drive down many a street anymore.

Good Humor doesn't drive down many a street anymore.

Come with me. Take my hand. We'll skip and slurp on popsicles.

Maybe it will rain so we can dance between the droplets...if not, I can always pull out the sprinkler.

We'll play 4-square and hopscotch in the park and feed Grape-Nuts to squirrels and cute little families of ducks.

We'll blow bubbles and devour more grape blow-pops than anyone over the age of 9 should ever consume.

Come afternoon, we'll go jumping in knee-deep puddles and then lie in the grass to dry off in the sun.

The Good Humor man doesn't drive down many streets anymore, so we may have to track him down on our own.

Because life is just to short to let laughter, joy and good humor pass by with barely a wave.


A think that I thought on a 17 mile roller-blading run.

The wind is created by roller bladers on the Wobegon Trail.
Proof? When we stop the wind stops.

North wind or south today, ma'am?

Anyone who says differently is selling something

I loved you.
Just thought you should know.
And I won't have a chance to tell you in person
Because I hope I never see you again.
Don't be bitter if I ignore you.
(if I can even work up the guts to follow through)
I'm only trying to save myself some pain. A little heartache.
But I might not have the courage.
Not even to soften my own hurt if it means causing yours.

Connundrum: I have to hurt one of us
...once again I doubt I'll have the courage to pick you.

I always said I hopes that wouldn't happen, 'cause I couldn't bear to lose friends that way.
And that wish came true. It hasn't happened. But this is much worse.
They just fade away slowly one by one, falling for someone else.
All of them. One after the next. And I hoped you wouldn't go too.

Well, atleast it won't be awkward to visit you when you're married.
There's a tarnished brass lining on the funnel cloud in my heart.


I'd hide too, Waldo.

I don't want to be known
because who I am will not be understood.
And I don't mean that in an angsty way. It's just true.

But I want to be understood.
To be known, but loved anyway.

And not because I think I'm something special. 'Cause I'm not.
But just because this is the only chance I have
For living.
My only go-round.

And to live is to love.
And to love begs requisite.
To truely be loved is to be known.

But if known means you see my faults
...well, that's another question entirely.

(except not)


Shades of Green and Grubby

To me she represents what I want to be. Classy and pretty in a 30-something way. Pink travel mug in hand (filled, no doubt, with chai). Her attitude and actions bespeak confidence. She fraternizes with the other young parents around her with grace and independence.

I bet she listens to NPR, does the Times crossword and drives a fuel efficient car. Maybe a Prius? Or better yet, A VW.

I bet her other child is a dirty dishwater-blond boy. Maybe 6 or so and not getting any older. He was born 6 or so, 'cause she would never be the mama of a baby.
Her husband is probably either an editor or owns a technological something-or-other company. At any rate, his office is extremely posh and in a very sophisticated building.

And their house is no less classy. Probably very modern – stainless steel and glass paired with retro yet simplistic furniture.

I've never even spoken to her. But I see her now & then while her daughter plays T-ball against the younger boy I nanny.

And now is when I'm gonna get philosophical: I realized that she was lookin' a bit green around the gills one day as I came dashing across the field with Evin before his game and flopped in the grass to read Covino's Elements of Persuasion... I have my options still open. I envy her stability, but she looked like she envied my independence and my freedom.

Hmm. I wish I could live with more passion in the now instead of envying what I may be someday. I'll regret every moment that I don't. Except for that one time... = )

May I offer you some chocolate and a midol?

It's not really worth the trouble to be female, sometimes. Here's is a partial list of my grievances:

I spend nearly a whole minute every day, while speeding through my-- err – beauty routine, bemoaning the fact that I have the most absurdly combination skin in the history of pretty much ever, 'cause of course that matters if you're a girl... Yeah, well, the blotchy look keeps those pesky shallow guys away, anyway! Bite me.

Whose idea was it that muscle should weight 3 times as much as fat? Seriously! I can go down 5 pants sizes by gaining 25 lbs. I could have 3% body fat and Concepts would still call me fat. Here's how it pans out: If one more helpful person tells me what an “average, attractive” female wight is, I'll put some of my muscle to use demolishing their face. I don't care if 108 lbs is attractive, being wimpy and/or waif-ish is not high on my priorities list.

Mascara is evil. I cut my eyelashes down to half their natural length so I could smear that gunk on them and poke myself in the eye with a bristle-brush? Swell.

Girl pants. Oick! What's the point? Girls spend HOW MUCH TIME complaining about their thighs and butts just to stretch on 99% spandex jeans that are 5 sizes too small and accentuate what? Oh yeah... Isn't that dumb? I'll loan you a pair of my brother's cargo pants, too.

Adding an addition to your height in the form of “pretty shoes”, aka high heels. I've never seen being 5'6” as an issue...apparently that would be a false assumption. If you don't add another half a foot to your regular height you can't be feminine. You also can't be graceful and wow people with your mad stilts skills. Yeah. Right. I have enough difficulty walking on the feet I was born with. Adding any extra possibility for klutziness is NOT a brilliant plan. Theory: it's not that high heels make your walk look graceful, it's that only those talented people who are way too coordinated to be descended from apes can manage to walk in them.

Yep...a helpless ornament. That's what females are obviously supposed to aspire to. Bummer, I guess I missed the memo while I had time to be entirely muscle-free. And it's too late to teach this old dog to walk in high heels. And the pants are straight out of the question. The mascara might get another try or two, but the combination skin, well...let's just say I threw out my concealer months ago. Get over it or go soak your head.

Because the problem with that is obvious.

They say you can tell a lot about a woman by the contents of her purse. So here's me in a nutshell (although I don't technically carry a purse...instead I have a huge WW2 Army messenger bag. Even better!)

→ 1 binder filled with 2 semesters worth of Spanish word-lists. I keep meaning to study them.
→ My bible
→ 2 books whose bindings read: Persuasion. The first, Covino's “Elements of__” is for a class in the fall. I haven't finished the first chapter in the 3 weeks I've carried it. The second, Austen's beloved novel has been read twice in the past 3 weeks.
→ A 8x10 pad of drawing paper
→ A collection of NYTimes crosswords.
→ A box of Brown Sugar / Cinnamon Pop-Tarts
→ 2 bottles of Pibb Xtra
→ A bag of just-add-H2O refried beans
→ A SJU Sweatshirt
→ My wallet
→ A comb, several tubes of Burt's Bees lipgloss and other assorted toiletries in a hand woven fair-trade bag from Guatemala
→ A tub of Green play-dough
→ My keys
→ 2 notebooks
→ A folder of scheduling information for the boys' activities
→ 3 Eco-friendly shopping bags
→ Sunglasses
→ Cell Phone
→ Tylenol & Band-aids
→ A mug and 9 tea bags
→ A sippy cup (Yes, it's mine. I spill a lot, ok?)
→ A jar of applesauce
→ Mary Poppins, herself, to say nothing of the lamp.

There. Take what you want from that and learn a lesson. So, I'm gonna say the moral maybe is check your girlfriend's purse/bag before you propose and if she has a sippy cup or refried beans...Run, 'cause she's probably a person like me.


Could communion in heaven mean Pop-Tarts and Mr. Pibb?

And it's about the little things that change my life.

I rode a scooter today for the first time. And I was going too fast down a hill and I tipped over. I landed on the cell phone in my left pocket. My elbow was dripping blood, the palms of both hands were torn open. The cell phone barely got scratched.

I was driving home from work and ahead of me the sky opened up with sun beams streaming like the curtains of heaven. And I drove faster, 'cause maybe if I get there they'll let me in early.

And I took a big gulp of Pibb Xtra and the bubbles went up my nose and it made me laugh and then the soda came out my nose. And I have never before experienced that because I just now got my adnoids taken out and they used to block off that particular escape route. And I felt like a second grader snorting milk out her nose in the cafeteria during lunch except that I wasn't embarrassed.

And I kept driving fast to get to those curtains before they closed and left me alone in this world. And I ate a Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tart and then another one because what if I got there in time and they let me in early? I don't know if they serve Pop-Tarts in heaven...


Ani DiFranco makes me want to draw daisies on my feet.

About a Boy makes me want to knit another square hat.

All Weather Human makes me want to be a philosopher.

Rebecca makes me want to jump in puddles and dance in the rain.

Lauren makes me want to be an environmentalist.

Allon makes me want to really, really fall in love with God.

Stephanie makes me want to be motivated and driven.

Will makes me want to be intelligent and analytical.

Sarah makes me want to not care what people think of me.

Sara makes me want to embrace quiet quirkiness.

Valerie makes me want to read, read, read.

Taylor makes me want to wake up early to to the smell of coffee and cook in a stainless steel

Jenna W. makes me want to be a good friend.

Jenna L. makes me want to dance, dance, dance.

Chantelle makes me want to create and be original.

Hannah makes me want to ask the hard questions.

Anneke makes me want to be a servant and live what I believe.

Baylie makes me want to be a good listener.

Colin and Evin make me want to be a mommy someday...but not for a long time, yet.

Candace makes me want to love what I do.

Ruth makes me want to understand what it means to really live.

....The things that inspire my life. You are probably one of them.

You may not know what you've done for me, so here it is: You make me want more from life and inspire me to get off my butt and run for it. You've made me what I am and you're making me what I will become. You make me long to be so much more. You inspire my life.


So, I was thinking of getting rich quick...

I have a brilliant idea.
Let me know if you think it's worth pursuing a patent here...I've got this revolutionary new weight-loss plan...it goes kinda like this:
-> You get your tonsils taken out and then your throat feels like pain incarnate for a week + some, so you don't eat anything.
-> You have to take a week or two off life to make it work really well, 'cause all you'll want to do is sleep for, like, 5 days (or that might just be the codine...).
-> But at any rate, you can't ingest anything other than water and maybe certain fruit juices.

NOTE: all that stuff they tell you about eating ice cream & popsicles and stuff? Lies.
Your throat will be raw & bloody after two bites of ice cream. Don't do it!

But...12 lbs in 7 days? =\ Yeah, not even kidding.

I was thinking of calling it "The Tonsilectomy Diet", what say?

Think it'll go over?


But it's not a lie.

Surgery at six am is a blessing – I have no desire to be conscious long in advance so there's little time to think about what is going to happen.
Of course I know they are professionals.
I hear about people getting their tonsils out all the time. And they live to tell about it.
But maybe this time it will be different.
My throat is the one that is being cut this time.
What happens if the scalpel slips?
I may find out. Or...I may not.

The only word to describe the surgical center.
“Please enter through Door A and give the receptionist your name”. So I do.
I sign paper after paper acknowledging that I understand the risks and agree to the privacy laws.
Is this post an infringement?
I might know...had I read the stack of papers before signing.

The nurse is very kind.
I can't even hate her for making me wear the purple foamy surgery gown.
At least I get to wear my bra and underwear; that's better then at the clinic.

My blood pressure is fine.
My lungs sound good.
My heart is beating, too, so they tell me.
The IV.

She warms my hand with a very hot washcloth and wraps it up for a few minutes. My veins are too small; they have to plump 'em up a bit.
“We'll just keep talking about something else and you look away, alright?”
I've never been good with needles.
As she talks about who will see me next and what the recovery process will be like, she jabs a needle into my hand and threads a piece of clear plastic tubing into my vein, taping it down with ten or 12 strips of clear adhesive.

She continues to talk, smiling and carefree.
Next comes the anesthetist.
He, too, bears a big grin and assures me of the simplicity of the process – just three drugs added to my IV which will knock me out, then they will start pumping gas in through my nose so I don't wake up before they're through and will slip an oxygen tube into my mouth and down to my windpipe to keep me alive. “Thank you,” I say.

I really will appreciate that.

And back comes the nurse; now more friendly, cheerful and soothing even than before – my first indication that this is probably going to hurt more than I was expecting.

And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep in Recovery 1.
And I wake up and fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep and my mom is with me in Recovery 2.
And I wake up and only doze off and wake up and repeat again and again between cups of water and cups of apple juice and chips of ice and a heating device that attaches to my surgery gown and puffs it up like a balloon all down the front in Recovery 2.

And the nurses come back, three different nurses –
the one who got my ready for the IV
and the one who went in with me to surgery and the one whose son I took classes with
and who just wants to be there for me if I need a familiar face filled with reassurance instead of worry.
The worried face is worn by my mom.
She likes to worry about me.
I think she considers it her full-time job.
But it's not very soothing right now, since she is the one who talked to the surgeon right after he finished with me.

And they give me back my comfy clothes and they leave me to change and I do and I leave the room and my knees are gelatinous. But I'll be ok, they say, and they give me a carnation and send me off to my car and my mom drives me to the store to get my meds and some jello and some ice cream and some Sprite and some apple juice and some popsicles and some Jones Cream soda.

And I sleep for ten minutes then take a drink of water and then sleep for ten minutes then run to the bathroom and then take a drink of water.
And so it goes.

It has been 6 hours since I left the operating room.
I have slept in 10 minute intervals ever since, between walking down the hall to the bathroom and getting water.
And Shelbi is in London.With Noel and Tucker and Susan and the gang.

And when I changed pants I found a funny patch with a snap on it stuck to my side and I don't know how it got there or what to do with it.


Tell me times moves too quickly and I'll bite your face off. I'll eat you alive (and I'm a vegetarian)!
Want half my day? 'Cause you can have what's left. I'd be only too glad to part with it. The next week, too.
Oh, and when I'm old and nostalgic and am looking back on the by-gones, remind me of the pain of living. Remind me that some days suck. Remind me that it's ok to be a little closer to death if it meant giving up some yucky old day that I just wanted to end.


Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

Love until your heart is dry
But realize how vain it is.
It will never be returned.
Give up now.
Save the pain.

But I can't.
I love you.
And I can't stop.
Even knowing what it will cost me,
What I won't get in return.

You have my heart.
I can do nothing about it.
If you decide to break it, I can't stop you.

I can't take it back.
Now or ever.

Please handle with care.
...or just smash it. Like you give a damn.


Hi, I'm a philosophy major.

Remember when you last challenged your entire belief system?

And then there was that moment right after when you questioned everything you had finally concluded.

And then there was another moment just after that when you wondered if maybe your entire outlook on life was going to crumble but you found that you still had a pillar or two remaining.
And maybe it wasn't all going to tumble down around your ears just yet.

But how does this now affect your life?
How did you change because of it?
Run a little faster and you might just catch up to yourself.



Rule number 1 when you know you are failing, when you understand that you aren't good enough: Hide.
Smile and pretend that everything is ok.
Protect yourself, you can't afford to have your heart ripped up still further.
Run home.
Run away.
Wimp out.
Save face by saying you're sick.
Curl up, alone, and cry your eyes out.
And then post it on your blog.


.:Take Two:. a beautiful memory that may not exist

Creating lovely memories
In time with sweet music
As we dance hand in hand
Across the crowded floor
Feet gliding slowly
Perfectly in step
Arms around each other
beautifully caressed.
You whisper in my ear
As I whisper in yours
Dancing together across the glossy floor
Beneath the light of sparkling chandeliers.

Pull out the made-up memories
Turn up the sad music
As I dance, empty handed,
Across the empty floor.
Feet gliding slowly
In step with myself
Arms around the air
A one-way caress
Music whispers in my ear
My tears, the only reply.
Twirling alone across the dorm room floor
Beneath the light of florescent bulbs.


Why do all but the pretty girls end up walking home alone?

I glanced in your direction one too many times.
I tried to catch your eye, to capture your attention.
I smiled.
I tried to make you notice.
I only wanted to talk.
To walk.
With you.

We could catch up on everything that we’ve missed.
…if we had anything to catch up on.
I'm sure you don't remember everything we've been through.
I doubt you even knew i was present at the time.
We could remember what it was like to be there for each other.
…if you were ever there for me.
If you had cared for an instant.
If you had ever been there when I needed you.

I tried only a little bit too hard.
I waited for you only a moment too long.
Or a minute.
Or maybe ten.
I only wanted you to catch my eye.
I wanted you to notice.
I wanted you to take a single step out of your way.
For me.
All I asked for with my lingering was a moment of your time.
It’s not out of your way.
Well, maybe a step.
But I would never ask you to take that extra step.
I'd walk the last bit alone.

But no.
You didn’t notice.
You never knew.
And you will never know.
Because now I know.
I will not be naïve forever.
I may not catch on quickly, but I will catch on eventually.
You don’t want to be there for me.
You don’t want that extra smile.
You would not have noticed if I left without the extra moment’s pause.
Or maybe it was a minute.
Or ten.

You didn’t know that I was watching only you.
But if you had I suppose you would not have cared.
And you won’t notice if I’m not there for you again.
You were never there for me.
And you would not have taken the extra step.
The one I never asked you for.
You didn’t even take the first step.
The step that wasn’t out of your way.


My face is wet.

My face is wet. But I can’t be crying. Why would I cry? I am too numb. How can I feel the pain now? My head throbs dully. I should have used up all my tears. Yet from somewhere inside, more pain wells up. Throbbing; flowing down my face in streams. Every ounce of fluid in my body escapes through my eyes until my sobs are cracked and dry.

Despite the numbness, I can feel. Feelings I cannot push away crowd through me; stand unrelentingly at the corners of my mind, threatening me. I don’t understand them; I don’t know what they mean. I don’t understand.

There is blood on my hand. A crimson rivulet traces across my palm. What is happening? The knife, also, is dripping crimson. I watch with morbid fascination as a drop falls from the razor-edged blade to the concrete beside me.

There is a small clatter as the knife falls. My horrified gaze cannot release it, although my hand already has.

What is happening, and why? The thoughts which assault my mind are slowly fading into numbness. So I sit. And I stare; my mind empty. I cannot ask the questions, but I must find the answers; this cannot continue; I won’t let it go on. But I already have.
Drip. Drip.
There is blood on my fingers. The trickle traces across my palm and down my hand; it drips from my fingertips to the concrete. The knife still lies beside me. Blood taints the ground on either side of me, but I continue to stare dumbly.

What is going on? Why am I sitting here? My brain strives to formulate the questions, but to no avail; the answers are more elusive still.
My only reality is the knife on the ground— and the blood, trickling slowly from my wrist.
I cry until I can cry no more.


The depths of the darkness
I wait for the dawn
I walk through the shadows
Following your footsteps
My hand is in Yours
Forever are with me
I know
I am never alone.
I reach to the top and gasp for air
To give me life from death
Alone I swim toward the surface
As I strain for my first breath.

I reach out toward the table
For the food that gives me life
Your words, the Bread of Heaven
Forever fleeing from my sight.

The one who drinks this water
Need never thirst again
So I come to You to quench my thirst
To drown away my sin.

Alone, the night is closing
Crushed down in darkest depths
I beg You to bring the morning
As I strain for each last breath.

A study in the art of heartbreak & the beauty of pain

.The utter desperate beauty of tears.

.The tragic art of heartbreak.

.The hopeless romance of pain.


All those plans she chose to make
All the chances she chose to take
Had it planned out oh-so-right
All were ruined in just one night

She’s so angry she could weep
So she cries herself to sleep
She’s been let down once again
By another so called friend
It’s like her usual un-perfect world
Has caved the whole way in
Look at it any way you like
There ain’t no way it’ll turn out right

Some kids fall asleep with dreams so sweet
Others fall asleep with tears


a lonely soul makes it’s lonely way
ever searching
looking for truth
seeking for hope
scouring the world to find peace

one lone spirit in this big empty world
one soul crying in the night
one heart looking for the only way
a little girl searching for light

blackness that burns
terror unknown
lies in wait
hidden, under the covers
she fears
in her eyes squeezed tightly

she’s a tortured soul
she’s searching for peace
a chance to escape from the night
guide her
lead her
take her by the hand
show her she can trust you
let her know she can!
guide her
lead her
bring her some peace
she’s a little girl who’s scared
a little girl in the night
a tortured soul
searching for light.


i’m in a deep darkness
and i’m dreaming of you
in my darkness i’m
for your light to shine through

my waking dreams
my heartsick tears
my loneliness grows
as the light disappears
your healing touch
your consoling eyes
out of reach of
my waking insomniant cries

as i lie alone
in this place of fears
i look to you
to dry my tears
your soothing touch
your comforting eyes
all out of reach of
my waking insomniant cries

i look for your love
to free me from this:
my pain filled dream
my nightmare alive
in the wide awake terror
of my semi-conscious mind

because I spend my life to wait for you
with pain inside my soul
your existence is still too far away
from this midnight black as coal


do you understand?

.The pain.

.The hopelessness.

.The reality.


Art {in lyricless form}

carved in the tree.
Spray painted in green.
And blue.
On ally brick.
Existence measured.
{Proved by the superficial?}
Are they real? They need proof.

Ellie was here.black.
Spray painted.
More than marks on a tree?
Ally brick?
Proof that you are real?
Do you exist?
Do you matter?
Who cares where Ellie was?
All that matters is that Ellie WAS.

The all consuming desire
Of every heart
Or only mine?

So empty
D r i f t i n g
F r o m o n e t o t h e n e x t in a random
and chaotic order untilitallblendstogetherintoameaninglessjumbleof
A I M L E S S W O R D S.

thoughts on paper.

What is accomplished?


[sand]Castles In The Air

is this where it’ll end
with wishing never to dream again?
‘cause it all falls down
and the walls can’t stand.

foundation -- shaky.
workmanship -- dull.
floor -- filled with holes.
into each of them I fall.

unending repairs
it’s forever ‘do-again’
when’s it gonna end, huh?
will I ever understand?

am I gonna learn my lesson
will there be an end to all the falls?
will I be here come forever
staring still at my blank walls?

it’s the house that I built
it's my castle in the air
but I can’t help wonderin’
is it really there?

man, it’s sure a fixer-upper
is it worth what it’ll cost?
am I gonna give up all
just to gain back what I’ve lost?

it’s the house that I built
every stone place by my hand
is it my dream-castle in the air,
or is my castle made of sand?


Delusions of grandeur...

Remember being a kid and loving to do things that you thought would make people think you were an adult? Maybe you don’t. But I do! I remember carrying the car keys. I would flash them for the world to see, swing them and jingle them in my 5 year old hands thinking “Everybody probably thinks I’m a big 16-year-old that can drive!” (16 was, of course, the very best age I ever aspired to reaching!) Ah yes. That was probably why they smiled at me like that.

I remember being 7 and walking my little brother down the block and across the street to our friends’ house. The big people in the cars would smile and wave at us. “I bet they think I’m his mom,” I would ponder, “or maybe his babysitter.”

Babysitters, by my reckoning, were about the coolest & most sophisticated people on earth. Imagine getting paid to watch kids like me and my siblings! What could be more fun!? (Lol. Ah yes, in my child-like mind I was pretty hot stuff!) Not, of course, that we NEEDED a babysitter. I mean, we were some pretty big kids! Ok, so I couldn’t actually reach the microwave and wasn’t strong enough to drag the high-chair over…obviously the babysitter was there so that we wouldn’t die from lack of popcorn.

And now…I’ve past that wonderful age of sixteen and am nearing the official “adulthood” number. Oh, it’s sad to know that I can never go back. But…I’ve got new aspirations & new delusions of grandeur. Life just keeps getting better, and the memories are worth every moment.



She Walks In Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade more, one ray less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron (1788-1824)