When does the heart stop longing?

When does the heart stop longing? When it falls in love? But when we fall in love our hearts long more for that special someone, and in some cases grow cold and long for someone else. Does it stop when we find a job, a bonus, a pay raise? Or do we just long for more money, and more jobs, and more time? Does it stop longing when the world becomes a perfect place? Or does it long for pain to make comfort a reality?

Does it stop longing when we fill it with drugs, alcohol, self-injury, and self-harm? Or does it long more, because it cries for a cure?

When does the heart stop longing? When it dies? Or do we long for more time, and more chances?

Why I'm Still Single

I won't slow down.

I'm not afraid of the monster's I've shot down with my arrows;

Their eyes and their words and their wayward hands have no power over me.

Run as fast as you can, and we'll see if you can keep up.

I've seen other girls fall for apples, even golden ones,

But don't expect me to stray for a piece of forbidden fruit.

I've been shot down, I've been rejected,

But I'm not going to stop to fall down and cry.

I've wrestled with ideas and forces people prefer not to think about.

I'm not opposed to romance, or marriage

I'm just opposed to men who can't run fast enough win the race.

Any guy is welcome to try, though he might lose his head in the process.

Not just any guy can win, only those who can keep up, and beat me to the finish line.

So if you love me, try and keep up.

If I like you, I might just give you a head start.

If I don't like you, I'll put on armor even if it slows me down a little.

Either way, I'll probably still win.

My perspective

It's not easy being the woman that all my children have come to hate. They may not think it outright, but I can see it in their eyes, and their clenched jaws. I don't really blame them; I'm part of the reason they're miserable. My mistake and its consequences have continued to echo throughout mortality, in my children and my children's children.

I suppose I should just let it go, I can't do much about it now. That's the thing about guilt though, it seeps into the cracks of my mind and heart and it doesn't let go. It still won't let go of that forbidden fruit I ate, even after it turned to ash in my mouth. Even now, I can still taste it: Death.

I'll still say, long after my physical end, that it wasn't completely my fault. I doubt anyone will believe me to be anything but I wasn't the only one who ate it. God cursed him too, so not all of it comes from me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I'm cursed for believing a lie, when I knew it wasn't the truth in the first place.

Heading Home

I never could forget those moments

Below the sound of gun fire

And the roar of planes overhead.

Sometimes I wish I could,

So I wouldn't be obligated to share them.

But now my time is drawing near,

And I'm being called home from the battlefield in my mind.

It's time to put down my guns, my gear, and my baggage,

And write the letter my hand would never let me write.

It's time to tell my story, before I become another casualty.

Hearing Things

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn't dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn't hear a thing. It wasn't the satin lining. It wasn't the white-noised whispers. It wasn't the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn't even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.

Monkey see...

Watch me on TV,

Watch me watch my dreams come alive.

Watch me, as I watched them once

Watched them come alive.

A little bit of pain, a little bit of agony

Is worth the explosion of light for everyone to see,

For everyone to watch, live on tv.

They'll remember me, alright, on Memorial day,

More than they remember the logo, the image I've destroyed.

To Heidi Kline

It didn't matter if I was a

Kitty, a Hippie Chick, in the Mafia (or the card one), or just a 6th grader,

When we rode in a van to the beach,

Probably going a little too fast, and growing a little too fast,

As we blasted surfer rock from the stereo,

And songs about breakfast.

It didn't matter what our moms said about too much candy,

You'd let us eat it all in the backseat, and smile when we got carsick,

Instead of saying "I told you so."

I only knew you as a mentor for 12 months or so,

But those twelve months changed every month after

And taught me to be weird for a smile and a laugh

I guess I wrote these lines, to thank you for being weird for 12 months at least,

And I hope your kid ends up weirder than me.

Obstacles

Only one thing stands in the way of achieving my dream, the blue ninja bunnies. Don't laugh. I mean it. Do. Not. Laugh. Nothing, and I mean nothing, tops the stealth of bright blue fuzzy bunnies that I can never see coming. And they're pretty vicious too. The bunny in Monty Python and the Holy Grail had nothing on them. (And I mean had, they probably killed him too, with cotton balls.)

I can hear them though, chewing their carrots. Don't call me crazy either. The very word 'crazy' makes them blood-thirsty.

I have found one method of keeping them at bay though. Simply put two stereos (or two computers, or two tvs) next to each other, and put a country cd (the most patriotic and honky-tonk one available) in one, and the most dirty gangsta rap cd in the other. Play them simultaneously. It'll stop the rabbits in their tracks, but it won't kill them directly.

It'll simply tick off any country lover or rap fan within hearing distance. There's a lot of them around here, and they all have something in common. They either love country and hate rap, or they love rap and hate country. Hearing both at the same time will make them murderous like a blue ninja bunny who hears 'crazy.' Those poor blue ninja bunnies don't stand a chance.

Rest in Peace

"Go to bed without dinner," they told her. So she did, without eating a bite, without a complaint.

And she never woke up. She's probably still sleeping, they thought, as they zipped her up in a sleeping bag. They looked at her and thought, she looks so peaceful, let's not wake her up with our noisy house, and so they put the sleeping bag in a garbage can, with her inside.

Weeks and months went by, and still she didn't wake up. They needed to move, but she seemed so peaceful, and she felt frightfully cold. So they kept her in the sleeping bag, and put her in the shed, thinking she'd miss her home if they brought her to another state. They told no one where they put her, or about her prolonged sleep, for fear someone would disturb her, or so they told themselves.

Big Brother

I read her diaries,

Her journals with pink ink,

Looking for something a bit more red and sinister.

I tapped her phone calls about boys and toys,

Listening for terrorists and attacks.

I suppose I'm a bit paranoid,

Storing her favorite candies, canned foods, and soda in the cellar,

And isulating the room with concrete.

But she'll thank me one day,

When disaster finally strikes this 'burb in the middle of nothing important,

and she'll finally remove the restraining order.

Fine Line

"Not a whole lot of difference between blue and grey, is there." She said as a matter of fact, fanning herself with silk and wood.

Her friend sat next to her, smoothing the fabric over her nortorious hoop skirt. She glanced up at the smoke, and shrugged. "I suppose not." Following the sound of cannon fire, she quirked her head. "Although...."

Turning her head, the one with the fan glanced at her. "What?"

"Wearing a blue uniform or wearing your own grey one can decide whether or not someone will shoot you out there, on the grass."

She shook her head. "Doesn't decide who gets shot, just who shoots them." As if on cue, someone fell in the field, and didn't rise again. A medic walked over to him, checked him over, and shook in head. Too late.

"It's not a very civil war, is it?"

"Not at all."

Irony in Irons

They sat in chairs next to each other, with their hands reaching behind them. Neither said much with their mouths. Both prefered to speak with their eyes. One glanced about the room, unsure of his situation and the consequences of it. The other stared straight ahead, too numb to care. He fiddled with his hands, ignoring the feel of the metallic cuffs on them.

The light above their heads flashed on, and they heard a sharp click to their left. One turned to look, the other ignored the clicking boots on the concrete floor. Within a few steps two pairs of black shoes stopped in front of them. A voice coughed gruffly to get attention from one, while the other didn't need prodding.

Eventually they both glanced up to see cold eyes. The eyes glanced back, expectantly, though they never seemed to recieve anything in turn. Mouths on the visitors' faces moved, but the mouths on the faces on the bodies bound to the chairs stayed firmly closed. They knew it would only take a little prying.

It seemed strange, being forced to talk when they had been punished for speaking out in the first place. They didn't dare speak now, for fear that more would come to join them. They had to protect the others, so they could speak out loud. One seem resigned to the fact that he may never speak again, while the other seemed terrified.

One of the interrogators reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, and the light flashed off of the blade. In that flash they saw their entire lives for a second, and then the it. vanished.

Show and Tell

I suppose I could show you the skeletons in my closet,

But please don't mind, they're a bit dusty.

They creak if you prod them too hard,

And they're kinda fragile.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure why I'd show them to you in the first place,

Except maybe to see the look on your face when I finally show you the

Inky dark places, the old places, the worn places,

The cob-webbed places.

Why I stay up all night

Some people stay up to save the world. Firefighters keep the city from burning down. Doctors and nurses stay up all odd hours of the night to save lives. Counselors prevent suicides, and teachers fulfill roles they never receive pay for.

Some people stay up to get hard work done. Students make up for time procrastinated. Parents wake up at odd hours to defeat the evil side of the sandman, mop up floods of tears, and deal with messes they long forgot about. Businessmen stay up past heavy eyes and aching limbs to punch and crunch numbers on a calculator their minds struggle to wrap themselves around. Creative eyes pry themselves open to watch the brushstrokes reach toward a nearly non-blank canvas.

Others stay up to do things they wouldn't dare get caught doing during the light of day. Thieves break into places they shouldn't. Male and female eyes rove  city streets watching things they wouldn't bear witness to in the morning. Otherwise good people sink to temptations they'd be embarrassed to talk about.

As for me? I stay up for absolutely no reason. I count ceiling blemishes because they exist. The sheep I count every night all have names, and different colored bows. I suppose I could say I have a sleeping problem, but it seems more like an addiction to staying awake.