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I'm tired of lighting jack-o-lanterns,
hoping to ward off the creatures that
hang around the forest, scaring little kids.
I'm tired of friends' condolence letters,
sent from all over the country; from sunny, wild
Florida to the copperhead deserts of New Mexico.
It's almost like they don't want me to heal,
bringing you up all the time
in conversation; in apologies, excuses.
Darling, it's bad enough that
I miss you, your sporty style;
your sweatpants, cute crop tops,
baseball caps, worn backwards.
I miss you so much, Leto,
I'd accept you in any form;
even as a spider, ghost pink ribbon.
Just let me know, darling,
that you're still in this world, somehow;
you haven't left me alone.

What can I say of old customs?
Sometimes they're based on fact, history
long passed down like antique china,
from generation to tragic generation.
Sometimes; however, babe, they're
just fantasy, an Aquarius dream that
they wish would come true; they
believe in it so much, they begin
to think they've achieved something, a miracle.

But they haven't; they're just
stuck in their private universes of fear, sorrow.
I don't want to be like those people, honestly.
But darling, I catch myself
looking at a spider, about
to sweep it off my porch with a broom,
then pausing midway and
wondering if it's really you..
I know it's crazy but
that's what grief does to humans
when they've suffered a huge fall.
They sink through the floor of reality,
they don't care anymore..
An old Celtic legend says
if you see a spider on Halloween night,
it is probably a recently deceased loved one.
Oh it's why I'd like to
believe it's my darling southern Greek, Leto.

Laying my head on a goose feather pillow,
I still hear the children in the neighborhood
chanting “Trick or Treat”
but I'm too tired to answer the door;
it's long past eleven and anyway, what for?
I don't have much candy to give them, many sweet words.
I'm sure you've noticed how tired I am of
faking composure in front of strangers.
Maybe all I want this evening is to close my eyes and
dream up memories; when we were together,
walking down the California coast one holiday in March.
St. Patrick's Day, yeah; we were happy,
we partied on the moonstone sand with
all our buddies from college.

Leto, you were so close;
my hands around your waist,
rimmed with a beaded chain.
You were so gorgeous,
your cinnamon hair
blown about by the salty wind.
And you kissed me in front of everyone,
sweet summer lyrics and pop melodies
pounding from a nearby stereo
as our friends bounced around,
almost forgetting we were there.
But it didn't matter because,
Leto, you never were
ashamed of what we had, girl.

You only cared that we were out in the open,
talking about poetry slams, the best coffee houses and
whether or not we could have a quiet night all to ourselves,
your parents gone for the weekend.
Oh I wanted all of those things too with you, always.
But I wasn't taking into consideration the future,
how our plans could all be thrown away,
shot to hell in an instant, here on earth.
It only took a second for me to lose it all,
or so I thought, because there was a storm
and our taxi driver wasn't paying attention;
crashed right into another car on the east highway.

It was almost midnight.
I had to call your mom,
my hand shaking, the phone almost slipping
from my sweaty palm, and
there was blood on my other hand..
You were gone in a moment of confusion.
Which way?
Turn left!
But there was rain, covering the windshield.

There was snow on the way, too.
Now November is only a month away
and the anniversary of your death haunts me.
Honestly, Leto, do you think I'm strong enough
to survive this winter without you?
I'd like to think so,
but darling, I'm not so sure..
Leto, you were my anchor.

So come by, sweetness.
I don't care if it's just for one night;
an evening of trickery, magician's curse.
I'll live through it, till the end.
I'll fight off the monsters hiding
in the basement as best I can
so I can outlast the terror and hopefully
sit on the porch, waiting for
the moment when you land on my palm;
my smoke-and-glitter spider dawn.

Oh I want to survive just for you,
Leto, so climb up my bedroom window,
like Romeo visiting Juliet; I want
to make you mine in the present tense,
not a past memory reflex,
the real thing I want again,
my gentle queen of darkness.

Oh Leto, please tell me this time
I won't lose you in the blink of an eye.
Please tell me, darling, that I do have
something worth living for;
something precious I can
lock in my heart for all those weak
human moments when
I'm feeling uncontrollably suicidal.
Give me a reason worth staying for
in this world made of last chance
paper and glow-in-the-dark marker,
stickers that little girls throw away
after entering third grade,
but we kept them; you and I, we didn't
want to part with that
innocent daisy chain time.

So come see me before it's too late;
before the spirit world claims you
all over again, because you know
Halloween is just for one night of
makeshift tent sin, girl; pillow fights and
lips coated in cotton candy blue and pink.
Come see me before you disappear again..
inspired by this superstition: "On Halloween, if you see a spider, it is the spirit of a loved one that is watching over you."
90s flashbacks; lyrics streaming out of the car radio
drive me mad as I try my damndest not to think about
the consequences of a 6th grade prank,
spiraling out of control on a dirt road
seven years ago when I was easier to bruise;
my young, childish lily arms all scratched up,
my heart pounding erratically,
my low-rise jeans torn and white knees
bleeding American blue and red blood.

I lost someone that day by the riverside.
She was driving, I was in the passenger seat,
dumbly mouthing along to French lyrics,
trying to make her laugh, smile like
the Treasure Island mermaid that she was to me.
I wasn't watching the road, the blacked-out street,
and neither was she; we both sped
blindly down rubber, asphalt,
concrete, fallen pine trees.
Some kids had torn down a sign just at the crosswalk.
We took the turn too quickly, my best friend and I did.

Now she's gone, sank right through
the floor of her weak, old Honda.
I lost her to a pool of grimy water,
rich in mulch and and swamp-like monsters.
And even after all these years,
sometimes I swear I can still smell
her perfume on my favorite sweater,
the one I was wearing the night of the accident;
the last hours of summer, ending in tragedy.
And I don't know if I can forgive
whoever took down that caution warning sign,
cop it out to youth and ignorance.
If they hadn't done that, she would be here now,
my September moonbeam.
And she was better for me than you ever were.

I trusted you with my demons.
You just piled them up in a corner,
told me I was too sensitive.
You said I couldn't shake off the past
so I should just toughen up, get a life.
Well, you know what?
You should take your own advice..

I know people can't choose
whether they get beaten down,
but you can try a little empathy.
Honey, every once in awhile would be good,
do wonders for your self-image,
not to mention; inner beauty,
the thing you criticize in the mirror,
then justify it with excuses.
Plastic surgery; double eyelids, a bigger chest,
you  think maybe you'd be okay with what you have
if you didn't look for flaws inside everyone else?
You're not the only one bleeding,
just think about that for a second.

I have the right to grieve.
I have the right to be angry,
to throw stones at store windows,
damaging those worthless condolence
gifts people leave out front,
their “I'm sorrys” and “feel betters”
taking the place of real love.
Oh my jasmine darling knew what that was..
It's when you want to tear apart the world
just to make sure that the one you care for
most is safe at the end of a long night.
Out by the shipyards, South
Carolina high; marijuana leaves
smelling clean and wicked;
lovely smoke clouding our vision,
slipping in and out of our lungs,
she and I used to walk around
like we knew everything dangerous and fun.
In reality, we were fools;
young and blinded by excitement,
rebellion, teen pop songs.
We didn't know a damn thing about pain;
we thought we did,
but it's different
when the real thing is staring you in the face,
spewing blood; hot and sick, all over your hands.
It's different when nothing you inhale or swallow
can numb the hollow feeling in your Saturn chest,
when you'd rather die than open your eyes again
to a listless morning,
barely awake, barely moving, breathing,
without your best friend.

“She was everything
until she became the air..”
That's what you said.
Go to hell, alright?
She's more than that.
I'm shaking off your half-made
cake white advise,
tragic counseling.
No, you didn't care.
You just wanted someone to think
you're smart, reverent.
But I'm not going to ignore how
you pricked my orange blossom heart.

I needed time to heal,
my spider web scars
showing under long sleeves,
glowing like ageless sins.
You were better at hiding your demons
under makeshift covers, blankets
thrown out into the graceless sun;
moth-eaten and itchy,
unfit for human contact.
Oh you had no right to dig this knife
deeper in my rib cage, rickety side.
I never made you feel so worthless,
not even in my weakest moments
of wanting attention from a girl
who fantasized about rainbow
horoscopes and martinis at dawn.
Nothing I did is worse than
what you threw in my face
that day you came over.

You accused me of something monstrous, inhuman.
Your words caused all those silent demons
to come out of hiding and stab me with
their claws as I tried to escape,
fight against childhood nightmares.
Then you pretended to know best,
to care, as icy tears rolled
down my cheeks in vein,
their pain barely concealed.
Well, it's too late..
I can pick myself back up
without you left-handed embrace.

Blow the candles out
all around her grave.
I can let my friend sleep in peace
and throw away the guilt I feel for
not watching the road,
when I should have,
seven years ago today.
I can bury all that self-hate
in the ground and throw
my sweetheart's bracelet
in the river where it belongs.
I can forgive myself now
because what the hell?
It's over, she's gone..

Meeting you, I recently
found out I don't want
to end up like poison ivy.
candles for Marley
"And I've been a fool and I've been blind
I can never leave the past behind
I can see no way, I can see no way
I'm always dragging that horse around

Our love is pastured, such a mournful sound
Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground
So I like to keep my issues drawn
But it's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa
Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh whoa
And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off, oh whoa"- Shake It Out, Florence and the Machine
Harlem, 1980s; gutter lilies,
that's what our teacher called us,
secretly behind our backs.
5th grade trauma; I found you
bleeding on the stairs..
Nobody came to help.
We were just immigrants.

And I walked you home, held your hand for a second.
I wanted to be your superhero.
And I know I made you angry.
You pushed me away when I tried to wipe the blood
trickling down your forehead.
“I don't need you making me look weak!” you screamed.
You ran away but I don't hold that against you..
Neither of us wanted this gang life, friend;
the pressure to drink bitter
alcohol scorching our throats, making them dry up,
premature sex in clubs, holding
guns in our 10-year old hands.

Oh I wanted to protect you from all of that
but it was just me against a thousand,
maybe more and our parents didn't do a thing
to stop them from molesting us in the back rooms
of Shanghai bars, New York restaurants.
It wasn't fair so I waited
until I was strong enough,
smart enough to come back
for my injured sparrow.

And do you forgive me?
The timing was wrong..
But I fought my way
through the crowds.
I had to see you,
gaze upon your cherry-wood
eyes in the midst
of those stray bullets, sirens;
police, bad guys;
it's hard to tell the difference
when you're an outcast, anyhow.

“Run!” you yelled,
your vocal chords almost breaking
as the streets broke out in noise and terror.
I couldn't believe it, stood paralyzed.
You had forgiven me, friend;
pardoned my cowardice before.
“It doesn't matter anymore,” you claimed. “Just run..
It's all we can do for the sake of innocence, youth;
Mcdonald's treats wasted on
cracked, bloodstained lips,
hungry bellies filled with nothing
but soup and butterfly wings.

We found shelter on the roof of
an abandoned sweatshop,
old-fashioned factory.
We fell asleep in the smoke
rising from chimneys,
furnaces down below.
Hell's flowers, guarded
only for a moment longer..

I wanted to be with you till the end.
I didn't care if my white rabbit
demise would be sooner rather than later, friend.
But eventually, the Shanghai
red sun set and we could walk back home, safely
together; hand-in-hand like orphans
searching for their destiny train.

And your mom was crying heavily
when she saw us, unscathed.
But mine didn't even care,
look up from her Mahjong game.
I guess that shows you
what love really is; sacrifice..
Notice me, the blood
running down my wrists.
Parents; they're not always great, friend.
I know that better than anyone and so do you..
Your dad was a mobster in disguise.
He didn't give a damn about his son's safety,
in school, getting bullied,
locked inside of restrooms,
or out in the back alleys of Los Angeles;
getting beaten and abandoned, almost blind.

He can go to hell, I say..
You don't need a father, any man, to make you special.
You can make a name for yourself without that bastard.
And if I could face the dragon,
I'd say, “I won't let you ruin my best friend,
reduce him to a pile of ashes and lily petals,
gasoline remains, no..”

They think they can hurt us,
touch us without permission
just because we're kids,
smaller, more vulnerable
to change in temperature;
silver blades, nails, medicine, no..
These adults, they think
it's okay to hit children,
scar us from within, and unfortunately,
we grew up in that mentality;
but you and I are different.
Gutter lily, we choose not to be monsters.
You and I are the survivors.
Gutter Lilies
to all the kids who have been abused, one way or another; it's not okay and you shouldn't have to tolerate it.
Queen of hearts; she took me as
her playmate when we were young,
transformed me into her succubus dream; never-changing.
She burns Wonderland in her palms,
cupped hands, like a rose petal; liquid fire, Kenna
seduces the vulnerable, tragic hopefuls, wannabes.

Oh I came to her as a last resort,
had to hide my face behind a black veil;
a white bride's embarrassment.
I didn't have anywhere to go,
anyone I could trust with this adolescent
heart like a time bomb, ticking
in my weathered April chest; a virgin, no more.
If anyone found out I was different,
I'd be shamed for “witchcraft”,
satanic worship, romantic portions.

Oh she was my last chance; saving grace,
wanderlust in a strange, pagan land.
Pine needles dripping with silver rain,
Kenna stood under a collapsing thatched roof.
She had a book in her hands; a list of names, secrets.
Black, tainted; Kenna was planning something
when I came to visit for the first time,
came to see this so-called enchantress.

She had her revenge painted on her wrists.
Sold as a slave just because she was
dark-skinned, Kenna would soon be
the most feared woman in Salem.

Angel wings, ashtray cynic,
she learned how to hate all men after a past betrayal..
Someone branded her arm,
burned a humiliating tattoo;
claiming her as his property forever, or so he thought.
That belligerent fool from England did not know that
the woman he was bringing captive to the Americas
on a cotton white ship, in a trunk
as though she were a coat;
he didn't know that Kenna was more
than precious, pretty cargo.

Oh soon he'd be sorry..
He'd scream for all the children;
Afro and Native American, that
he beat down with his daddy's own whip,
the same one that used to cut
through his own skin.
You'd think he'd learn from
that stolen childhood,
but the cycle continues, sadly.
In this man's world,
everybody bleeds;
whether you're man, woman,
child or animal, spirit.
He shows no mercy
and many say it's because
he had none when he was younger
but I say that's no excuse
and Kenna deserves her freedom.

Yes, boy; take a torch to the houses.
Boy, warn the locals that
this is All Hallow's Eve.
This coming October,
Kenna's frantic, desperate.
She's had too much abuse.
Now there's no escape;
the Black Death, the Plague,
that's nothing compared to what
she has planned, our rebel
angel in moonstone grey.

Spill her blood on the graves
of witches, long dead.
There's nothing you can do,
you magistrate.
They'll rise up again,
these women
from a Celtic legend;
a recipe book of
lavender hope, clove salvation.

Pour red wine,
the blood of grapes,
rosewater on your hands.
Wipe them down my neck..
Kenna, you are sex on fire.

Yes, I drop to my knees in her presence.
She is the queen of a thousand
wolfs bane nights.
Poison berries stain her lips,
her skin glows
like Arabian sand in an hourglass,
marking my time of death.
Love runs out;
oh it's so sweet, so dark..
Like Olympias
manipulating Alexander,
Kenna takes charge,
laces up her corset
nice and tight; coral, pretty.
She's the last thing you'll see
before you close your eyes,
letting the fantasy in, and
while you sleep,
she turns all your nightmares
into reality; a wicked snare.
But you know what?
It's only fair in the sense
that she's experienced
the same thing.

Fifteen years ago, Kenna was
just a girl who got lost in the woods,
picking berries for a scant
dinner at her auntie's cottage.
Now she's a ruined adult
but she's here to stay and
all of you will pay for the things
that were done to innocents
in the name of sanctity.

Oh yes, Kenna;
I bet you've never seen her
taken by the west breeze,
tangled in jasmine,
porcelain eyelids,
she becomes someone else entirely
under the June moonbeam.
And she'll never
know my true feelings.
was inspired by Tituba from the Salem Witch Trials and the song Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac
Spanish guitars rip the morning
in strings of misinterpreted lyrics
and I've had enough of this town.
Yes, I want to get away from
these Jack-in-the-Box embarrassing memories
when you made a fool out of me,
sometimes even in public.
No, San Antonio baby,
I'm not retracing my steps back
to your copperhead heart.

The flowers you left me with can rot
on the windowsill; a sad reminder of
your deception, indecisive whims.
I never liked marigolds, anyhow.
But you didn't care, did you, now?
You thought you could treat me
like all the rest of your burlesque admirers,
holding candles, ready to get their praises
burned out, tongues on fire.
Cayenne pepper daze; that's exactly how
you made it feel, temptation,
tiara-less seduction on stage.

But you never had me on your mind, at all;
Desiree, you kept moving along,
shimmying in your skin-colored skirt for
other girls and even a few drunk
men who couldn't tell the difference
between straight and narrow.
Oh you 21st century succubus,
I had you pegged for an early quitter.
But you proved me wrong..
You wanted to stretch out
this mermaid-cursed song
like Scheherazade, saving your life,
saving this clockwork peach tree
fantasy for a few more nights.

And I was bright-eyed in your audience,
Desiree, catching the Sleeping Beauty
roses that you tossed out, shamelessly
and randomly to strangers.
And I met you afterwards,
had a drink at the bar; just
a small one, lavender scotch.
Desiree, you said I was a “good girl”..
I shouldn't drink hard liquor,
whisky and beer, all those
down-on-their-luck cowboy
tranquilizers and rodeo star potions.
Oh but we were both clouded
by illusion that bluebonnet night.

Starfish in your hair,
all the way from Corpus Christi;
sand-dollars liquefied in your irises;
light brown, almost gold, capturing
time and laughter,
locking it away behind the windows
of your cracked soul;
you were irresistible,
and exotic to some.
You used your Mexican heritage
to your advantage,
made a mess of Spanish lyrics
and Native American prayers
on the microphone.
Girl, you swayed your Aztec
hips as if they were
your only saving grace.
Oh Desiree, I can't
really blame you because
even though you
rarely talked about yourself,
your childhood,
darling, I had the sense that
you had your share of demons
that you were trying to escape from.
And aren't we all
just on the run?

Girl, you didn't have to
fake anything for me.
You didn't have to give it up
to someone else just
because I hesitated
when your corset
fell to the ground.
So what if I just wanted to talk?
So what if I thought you were
interesting enough
to get to know, backstage,
around the corner
from all those tramps and
biker clubs; old men with
tattoos, still acting tough,
even though everyone
knew that their days
were numbered, shortly.

It would only be a matter of time
before you'd mean nothing to them
and so I can't understand why
it couldn't have been me,
out there with you,
playing cards; losing
drinking games,
twenty questions;
oh you lost a potential friend.

Oh I hope you're happy now,
riding off to L.A on the back
of some pale liar's motorcycle.
I hope he gives you a reason
to stay away, but know this;
fame is the real illusion here
and don't think it's going to
be a Santa Monica dream
out there, with Spanish
mansions and old dried-up
novella actresses, waiting
on your hand and foot, dear.
No, it's not all dafodills
and fireflies; backyard
summer nights and
roasted marshmallows.
Girl, I would have given you
a lifetime of lazy weekends,
sitting at home, listening
to the radio, holding hands
under quilts and sipping
cafe au lait on the porch.
I could've given you a chance
to sing my lyrics onstage as
I danced, for the first time,
confident and unafraid;
rejection be damned!

But it wasn't enough for you..
And I hope California
finds you washed-out, boring;
at the least, I hope you
grow up, mature into
a young lady who can
hold her own, fight back,
not hide behind a man,
no matter how handsome
and cinnamon-toned.

Oh yes, girl, you missed
the opportunity of a lifetime
with a simple girl from Dallas
who would have loved
combing your hair and
making you lemon tea
in the morning to soothe
your sore throat, all those
splintered vocal chords,
exhausted from belting out
notes from soiled dove songs.
Desiree, you missed me
because I would have
treated you like a friend,
a partner, not a whore.

Now I hope you come to your senses
out there in the far west, the coast
dazzling in your eyes
behind those deceiving shades.
You always wanted
to leave these burnt Texas
sunflowers behind.
Believe me, I understand.
But you shouldn't have
underestimated my wishes
made on cosmic lattes,
martini stars, Desiree.
Maybe you're not the only one
hoping for an escape
from this swamp-like labyrinth.
Girl, take care..
"Now I'm of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret.
Somewhere downtown where a burlesque queen may even ask my name
As she sheds her skin on stage" -But it's Better if you Do, Panic at the Disco


United States
Current Residence: Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock


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Add a Comment:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 4 hours ago
Thank you for the favorite!
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for faving my work.
reveur-artiste Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks so much for the fav! :hug:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Dec 12, 2014
Galaxy Collision  Fire chantHail, Sharon.  The planets are aligned.         
In other words, our auras are well met. :cookieplz: Emote: COOKIES
(truly wondrous, your aura is a cookie)

And celestial thanks to you for faving:

"Neon" and "Air Sex"
Seieihime Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thankies so so much for the :+fav: lovely~:iconinamismileplz:

I really appreciate it~:iconyutasmileplz:
luminescent0513 Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you very much for the favorite darling :aww:
Reddawgi Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014


caddman Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014  Professional General Artist

Thank you ever so much for the faving my work my friend i really appreciate the support :iconsanta-glompplz:...:iconreindeerplz:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014
you're welcome, darlingHug 
Blacksand459 Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Hi Sharon! Thanks for the fave of my poem. Have a great day! :)
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