Poetry (again)

I'm trying to finish up editing my poetry repertoire.

Once I'm done, the good stuff can begin.

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Haunt me with compare
What can I do for the world?
Every one's breathing down
Our metaphorical necks
("Hey man, do you mind?
Personal space. Geez.")
This is how you wave goodbye to hope,
Spread adolescent, stuck fingers.
We are blurred by a definition,
Defined like a blur.
You are killed,
You are raped,
You are hidden-
My world brothers and sisters.
But what can we do?
We are a fuzzy generation-
Blurred by a definition,
Defined like a blur.

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i am a gypsy of the 'burbs
wandering throughout my caravan
of SUVs
pilfering everyone
(or at least their mind)
walking between the tents of apartments. many
lives ago, my jeans were replaced
by skirts of color, my skin
was dark, and dances
melted my scavenging days
into inky, smoky nights. the houses
all alike don't matter
to me- in my head, they are replaced
by forest and waltzes with the
night sky. i know the taste of fresh air, the
kiss of fire. shopping plazas
disintegrate into street bazars, the smells
of pomegranete and dirt (familiar
from public school, laughing with similar spirits,
spitting out the seeds.) some may
say, "prisoner", but i
rejoice- i am a gypsy of the 'burbs.

=====

I want to write a fun, sparkly note to a friend.
I want to sing in the shower.
I want to recite a poem- backwards.
I want to take a moon-lit walk.
I want to bathe in rose scented water.
I want an innocent mud pie.
I want a hug so big, it hurts.
I want life to take my feet and drag me by the ankles.
I want to sing at the top of my lungs-
And not care who hears me.
I want to love "a love that is more than a love."
I want to wear pretty clothing.
I want enough innocence to believe that the world is right-
And enough influence to make it that way.
I want someone to love me for my freckles,
Not despite them.
I want people to meet me on the airplane and think
I'm interesting.
I want to throw a pot.
I want to breathe like a child.

=====

Words should be beautiful. Sentence structure should be eloquent and flowing. Everyday, invalids, prisoners, and the innocent lose their right to speak. As such, with our status of freedom comes a form of responsibility to respect human language and not further degrade it. For what is more celebrated in our society than an infant's first words? And, yet, we spend the remainder of our lives negating this feat by desecrating this gift that we strove at first to have.