P b without the j• Show poetry

If you have nothing to do, go spend some good time with a Superhero™.

Chapter 1: http://storywrite.com/story/show/26348
Chapter 2: http://storywrite.com/story/show/26696
Chapter 3: http://storywrite.com/story/show/26867
Chapter 3.5: http://storywrite.com/story/show/37043
**New** Chapter 4: http://storywrite.com/story/show/53753

But if you have something to do, you should go do it. I'm sorry for shamelessly promoting my alter-ego on my page.
Thanks for your considerationconcern,
♥ Elena


























































there are things like courage:
bravery, self-assuredness, superiority.
and then there are things like this:
words never seen and yet spoken with much-ado-about-nothing force.
sometimes the hardest thing is the easiest thing, and sometimes the right thing is the bad thing. whenever that happens, call me.
i'll be the one with jesus on the comatose team for cornmaze-like orangeade.
irrrron fists of garlands and soup bowls not completely alright, there's a star on your forehead and on mine, too.
my tounge speaks words you could never lick to understand.
art is life:
what's your color?
[liii*me green, petroleum jelly]
there are mushrooms that tell the future: by freezing your soul you can steal the sands of time and bring your rescue (& through that you can bring the save-ation of the hUmAn RAce).

mmm, this is what a brain is.
L00k at the pretty animosities.
thanks.
thanks.
thanks.
thanks.

thanks for being here so long.














































God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.

"Small Wire" by Anne Sexton













A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.

"Young" by Anne Sexton





















Every poem can be considered in two ways--as what the poet has to say, and as a thing which he makes.

~ C. S. Lewis