I'll wish upon a star tonight
And plead upon it's powers bright.
That you and I will somehow be,
Not dreams but sheer reality.
I'm not so sure how a mere star,
Can change the rest of who you are.
But I will cross my fingers tight,
And wish you were with me tonight.
You may not feel the way I do,
I don't expect those things from you.
But in your trap I've fallen deep,
It's like a cliff so high, so steep.
I'm not so much into writing poems
or letters, or stories, or pretty songs,
'Cause the poet that wrote this poem you see,
Is the love that dwells inside of me.
I could only wish it would draw a smile,
On the face that I long to see all the while.
But the possibilities are really far,
So I could only admire you like a star.
As I said, I could only wish you were here,
So that I could hold you so close and so near.
And if wishing could make all my wishes come true,
I'd wish on all the stars that I could be with you.

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
	clubfooted ghoul come near me.
I am not yet born; console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
	with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
		on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.
I am not yet born; provide me 
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
	to me, sky to sing for me, birds and a white light
		In the back of my mind to guide me.
I am not yet born; forgive me 
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
	when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
		my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
			my life when they murder by means of my
				hands, my death when they live me.
I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
	old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains 
		frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
			waves call me to folly and the desert calls
				me to doom and the beggar refuses
					my gift and my children curse me.
I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God  come
	near me.
I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
	humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
		would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
			one face, a thing, and against all those 
				who would dissipate my entirety, would
					blow me like thistle-down hither 
						like water held in the 
							hands would spill me
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

She does not sing opera
In her bathrobe and bunny slippers,
Or eat Chinese food under her black
umbrella in the rain.
She never stays up late, just to listen to the
sound of midnight,
Or does a pirouette in the street all alone.
She never whitles out her window to
passersby below.
Or feverently discusses evil and world wars
with the deaf man on the park bench
Who watches birds eat crumbs.
She refuses to let her dreams gaze into the
eyes Of tall strangers embracing on the grass,
So please don't even ask her.
She'll just wait for the days to diminish,
And the passersby to pass by.
They will be forever deaf to a song or a whistle
That will stay trapped
Behind her lips
Clasped
Shut.

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand
and chaining a soul
and you learn that love doesn't
mean leaning.
and company doesn't always
mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn
that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye you learn.

A story of beauty and pain is written on her face.
A painting of misery and joy was brushed across her lips.
Songs of sorrow and loneliness are carried form her lips,
airborne.
Her hand touches mine, and it is as cold as her heart.
Uwielding, unforgiving.
Skin, subtle flesh, made only to arouse, excite, intrigue.
Never to nurture.
Never to hold me in her pale arms.
She is a broken china doll.
Still lovely to hold, still elegant to display,
But never to receive any true joy.