Watch The World

I watched the smoke
as it blew higher
up and through the roof
I watched the hose
as it blew harder
as the fire grew
I watched as Noah
professed to Allie
that his love was true
I held your hand
and sat there knowing
that we'd make it through

Your end

The first fall of winter
a deep shade of red
flooding the streets
for the things that were said
the children are playing
their faces aglow
they can't wait to dive in
to the blood in the snow

It's painting the sidewalks
and drowning the yards
people line up
with their blood donor cards
they sign up and offer
their own to be spilled
this show has turned out
to be darker than billed

The stunned of the living
are walking the streets
more wake from the gurneys
and rise to their feet
so throw on your black shoes
dripping with blood
and take to the march
of this penitence flood

Disease from the wounded
hangs ripe in the air
like pains of the night
that you had the affair
so sit back, relax
and don't put up a fight
you have front row tickets
to opening night

The sharpest of knives
will cut deeper than bone
and show you just how
you die cold and alone
and when the band marches
across your black soul
I'll watch from the rooftops
and wave as they go

These darkest of days
came from morbid beliefs
that apologies offered
came through gritted teeth
so say your goodbyes
it's your final farewell
I'll savor your death
and I'll see you in hell

anxiety rips

anxiety rips
the stomach walls,
wrenches
the heart,
a drop of molten metal,
into the open wound.

fear finds
a guttural sound
welling inside,
ballooning in the throat,
only to catch
against the back
of the tongue.

worry wills
the hand,
balled in a fist,
to seek the
yielding wall,
and crush itself
in a tangle
of bone and flesh
and splinters.

as if it would be relief
to shatter
a glass ornament
between the teeth,
tonguing the shards
of papery glass
crunching,
scraping,
against delicate enamel
no longer smooth.

as if it would be relief.

by: angela

untitled

i find myself leaking
bleeding clear,
dripping with regret
flooding fear.

i find myself cracking
opened wide,
guilt seeping into
softest side.

i find myself ripping
at the seams,
tossing aside my
very dreams.

i find myself asking
why it’s me,
when in times before
unnamed “she.”

i find myself dreaming
better days,
found wrapped in impos-
-sible haze.

i find myself writing.

by: angela klaassen

black

white

father

far from here, in the sea
of salty tear, in the aft
of a sinking raft, which was
christened "art" and charged no fare,
lived a rat, with hide like tar.
whose fate it was to become
fat, as he ate the hearts of
young passengers from afar.

-for my father. i love you

a excerpt from a recent letter from mere:

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
I like Candy
only a little more than You!

Peace & Love,
~Meredith~

*wow, that so sweet it almost makes sick. thanks girl.

shoebox

I.

to a shoe,
being in
a shoebox
must be like
being born
and put in
a coffin
(meant for one)
with someone
that looks just
like you do.

II.

or it could
be like a
tragedy:
the modern
Romeo
and Juliet.
young lovers
in their tomb.

III.

i can't stress
this enough,
to a shoe
it might be
like living
in a pink
or salmon
mobile home.

IV.

whatever it
is like, i'm
sure the light
is welcomed
and the feel
of doing
what you are
intended for
is like God.

rain

if it weren't for the wetness
i would love the rain.
but something about the rains and hard winds
that can seep into my bones through my skin
reminds me of love.
but the the kind of rain that makes small rivers
that run down my driveway
and pool up against the curbs
like the pond of stagant water that
sits in my broken bathroom sink
makes me smile.
but before i go to sleep
I ask myself:
does anything smell as good as
wet concrete on a sunny day
or feel as good as
a fat rain drop running down my face
or sounds as good as the rain on a tin roof?
but of course the answer is yes:
the itchy smell of your perfume
the feel or your smooth skin against mine
with the sounds of the rain whispering to me
through my window.

-for mere

the ghost in

the ghost in, the ghost
in, the ghost in the machine.
is it me, this human animal
or the ghost that is up
late typing? am i in
a fleshy skin prison?
a bit of slick substance.
unobservable and
immaterial wedged
in the back of my head
or deep warm hiding in
my intestines? like a
worm. and my hands and legs
are nothing but levers
and buttons. come out my
little ghost, let me see!

here's to friendship

toast!!!
raise your glasses and your spirits!
here's to friendship,
the quiet
but fierce kind
that warms the blood
like beer.
true, i am not drunk
enough
to tell you all
that i love you.
but i have drunk enough
(friendship and beer)
to know it.
and it is also good
to know
that i will never become
sick of one.


to Danny, Jake, Colin, Kevin, and Matt