There was a rhythmic pounding in my dreams,

One strong enough to wake me,

But as my weary eye transpired

The beats echoed in the stillness.

My head tried hard to remember the taste,

To contain the knowledge of you at my door,

But you're there no more.

What are these dreams that recur

Threatening to never grant me peace?

If only to be cast out of my mind forever!

Forgotten and abandoned.

But no, I wouldn't dare forget,

Don't confiscate that memory from me!

Let it rest on my pillow

And greet me each night.

Too fond of you, I am,

To let it from my sight.

So I keep it on my pillow

And just for sanity's sake,

I hardly ever slumber.

~Heidi Joens

So raw these words fall from my mouth

And form themselves on a page,

It is the only place I'm honest,

Often the reader is just myself.

I must create a work of art

That represents my heart.

When wounds cut deep

I bleed out words

And clean them up with paper.

When feelings fester

And rage comes forth,

The pencil is my tool

To orchestrate a remedy

Before I am a fool.

When joy is eminent and flooding over

I laugh out couplets and rhymes.

Words not spoken but words that are thought,

Modified,

Written.

These are the words that encapsulate

All that I am, by God permitting.

~Heidi Joens

Wicked

"So he stalked her again. Love makes hunters of us all." - Gregory Maguire