Poem For Me (Poem by Phillip Kannaly)

Turn my tears into ink
and my skin into paper
All these things that I think
my mind can't escape her

Use my pain as fuel
To jumpstart my brain
Just another useless tool
As I sit in the rain

Outside your house
wishing you'd come out
Quiet as a mouse
Hope I'm the one you're thinking about

Tattooed inside my mind
is your smiling face
No one else I find
Could ever take your place

But you didn't feel the same
it was my worst fear
I bet he forgets your name
Within the next year

For you my heart will always be open
No matter how badly it's broken
Because only you can
save me when I'm choking

So this poem is to you
the one that got away
until my arms hold you
...another day

Whenever, Whoever (Original Poem)

How come whenever
we start to fight
Even when you're wrong
it always seems you're right

How come whenever
you speak to me
No matter who's around
you're the only one I see

How come whenever
you look into my eyes
And tell me that you love me
I always act surprised

How come whenever
we're lying in your bed
I secretly wonder
who you could be thinking of instead

How come whenever
you whisper in my ear
No matter who hard I try
your words are never clear

How come whenever
you leave and go away
You say you'll be back soon
when you know you're going to stay

How come whenever
I remember you're not here
Tears begin to fill my eyes
and confirm my deepest fear

To My Father (Original Poem)

I'm sorry I'm not perfect
and all I do is wrong
But daddy, please forgive me
I just want to belong

I'm sorry I'm not flawless
and always make you mad
I'm sorry I'm not that perfect girl
and all I do is bad

Daddy, I'm sorry I'm not pretty
and I'm really not that smart
But daddy, please still love me
and mend my broken heart

I'm sorry if you hate me
I hate me everyday
But daddy, please forgive me
Have a Happy Father's Day

Look Ahead (Original Poem)

My days are filled with lonely lies
no one can hear my pleas and cries
If only your hand was mine to hold
then maybe my heart wouldn't be so cold

People talk and people stare
I have to pretend I don't care
Hurtful stories are spread around
I'm trying to stand my ground

You people think I have it all
But you've never been there to see me fall
why don't you all just look ahead
Forget about me, I'm already dead

Two Friends (Original Poem)

Friends joined together
only to be taken away
by choice and by fate

Now one remains
while the other sits in the clouds
with a gun to his head
realizing what he had done

A tear slides down his cheek
and drops to the earth
he lets the rain fall
to tell her it's alright

....he's here

Erase The Marks (Original Poem)

Erase the marks,
start a new page
Slit your wrists,
the blood will drain
All your pain,
will disappear
Don't you worry,
no more fear
No more fake smiles,
no more pretend
Luckily for you,
this is the end

STD Dance [Love Waits] (Original Poem)

In the dark
your kiss is light
Your touch sending me shivers
of delight
Your smile so warm
all of this so new
I realized then
what you wanted to do
Your hair so moist
your lips so fine
Now I'm wishing
I could call you mine
I let down my guard
hiding my shame
Not wondering whether
you remember my name
Then it's all over
and I'll say goodbye
knowing then
it was all a lie

Life And Death (Original Poem)

A grin on my face
A sticky red substance
dripping down my wrist
Blackness eveywhere
Everything is still
Quiet tears roll down my face
and stain my cheeks
The blood slows
A frown appears
another cut is made
Again and again
until the pain subsides

...this may take a while

The First Time (Original Poem)

The first time I saw you
and looked into those eyes
I couldn't help but stare
they seemed to hypnotize

The first time you spoke to me
when I heard your voice
I swear it's then I fell in love
like I didn't have a choice

The first time we kissed
when our lips first met
butterflies were fluttering
still not seizing, yet

The first time we locked the door
lying in your bed
the best moment of my life
replaying in my head

The first time you said it
that this was forever
tears slid down my cheeks
a moment I'll always treasure

The first time you said goodbye
said ti had been fun
Well I guess that was forever
One shot- we were done

Mommy (Original Poem)

I'm sorry you were happy
and that you fell in love
I'm sorry the angels saw you
and answered your prayers from above

I'm sorry you looked at her
into those big, brown eyes
the same ones I have now
the ones that told you lies

I'm sorry you took her home with you
and that she stayed the night
I'm sorry I was ever born
then maybe you'd be alright

I'm sorry she packed her things and left
said that she was done
I'm sorry she walked out the door
and you pulled the trigger on your gun

I'm Sorry (Original Poem)

Daddy, I'm sorry that boys like me
and I act before I think
I'm sorry that I fool around,
that I swear and I drink

I'm sorry that my skirts are short
and my tops are cut too low
I'm sorry that I'm such a flirt
that I'm weak and can't say no

I'm sorry I go home with them
when I don't even know their name
I'm sorry that I give into
their stupid romance game

I'm sorry when it's over
they are nights that I regret
I'm sorry I was sober
because I just want to forget

I'm sorry I didn't listen
when you said that it was wrong
I'm sorry I ignored you
I just wanted to belong

I'm sorry that you said it
said you couldn't do it anymore
I'm sorry that I lied
and that I walked out that door

I'm sorry that I packed my bags
and that I have to stand on the street
I'm sorry I do whatever they want
just so I can eat

I'm sorry that you loved me
I miss you every day
I'm sorry I was stupid
My dignity is the price I have to pay

I Just Want You Close (Original Poem)

I just want to love you
And for you to love me back
I’ll do anything I have to
For you to stop sighing and unpack
I just want to see you
Smile like before
Before we started fighting
And slamming up the doors
I just want to hold you
In my arms again
Before we started hating
Back to when you were my friend
I just want to touch you
Explore you, exploring me
Before we started ignoring
Now you just turn on the tv
I just want to feel
Your heart beat with mine
Before we started lying
And pretending that we’re fine
I just want to kiss you
Like she does every night
Before we started cheating
Back when everything was alright
I just want to call you
So I won’t feel alone
To tell you that I’m sorry
That I want you to come home
I just want to love you
And for you to love me back
I’ll do anything I have to

…stop sighing and unpack.

Forever Young (Original Poem)

If only we could be young forever
And stay children at heart
Where we’d be given one more chance-
Given a fresh start
If only we could rescue the dreams
That we kept inside our heads
The ones that were pushed aside
Now collecting dust beneath the bed
If only we could play pretend
And wear our mother’s clothes
Where we could be someone else
-that nobody knows
If only we could make believe
And not worry we look like fools
Where we could cheat at board games
And make up our own rules
If only we could speak
Saying only what we mean
Where our true feelings
Would never go unseen
If only we could remember
How to truly love
We could live like Ken and Barbie
-hate we’d be free of
If only we could go back
To lyrics we’ve already sung
Where we’d run on forever
And be forever young

September 11th (9/11) [Original Poem]

The summer is fading
The skies are turning gray
It brings back the memories
Of that fateful day
Some people were silent
Others had to cry
As we watched in terror
Planes fall from the sky
Some lost a father
Others lost a friend
Suddenly we thought
The world had come to an end
It’s then we turned to God
Bowed ours heads in prayer
Hoping for an answer
To tell us that he’s there
The buildings buried low
And the smoke was cleared
Shocking the nation
And confirming our fears
Now every September
When summer fades away
We mourn the people and the memory—
of that fateful day.

Judy (Original Poem)

Before my great grandmother, Judy, died, she'd sit by the window and watch the birds outside in the trees. Every time she did this, she would point out one male Cardinal, who was always alone. Smiling, she'd say "That's my Bud. And when I die, you look for the Cardinal and he won't be alone anymore. There will be two of them, me and Bud." The day of her funeral we gathered at the house and outside the window were two Cardinals. I believe they are Judy and Bud...reunited again.

Looking at your photos
Brings back good times,
But now that you’re gone,
All they are, are rhymes.
The snow was falling hard
And the skies were gray
The day we buried you,
I bowed my head to pray.
My heart still hurts,
Picturing you there;
Peacefully dying—
Rocking in your chair.
The tears always fall,
When the cardinals appear,
It’s like you always said,

It’s how I’ll know you’re here

In Order To Feel Significant (Original Poem)

I used to cry—
About things I didn’t have
About things I wanted,
But did not receive.
I used to want—
A house with so many rooms,
That I could get lost in
And no one would find me.
I used to hope—
For materialistic objects,
To bring me happiness
And make me feel significant
-But;
Now, I cry—
About things others don’t have,
About things they need,
But can not receive.
Now, I want—
Everyone to have a home,
That they could call their own,
And abandon their place on the sidewalk.
Now, I hope—
For the materials necessary,
To bring the world happiness,
So that everyone can feel significant.

Animal Persons (Original Poem)

The widow uncoiled slowly
-dragging her paintbrush behind.
The white thread, sculpted
Into beauty, she wept-
The wind erasing her art
So that she must start anew,
Given a new page
-she begins once more.
Intertwined, detail is defined-
Fine lines drawn, penciled in
-perfection.
A masterpiece, is her web
Exhibited for the world to see
-intriguing visitor’s with
The diligence and poignancy
Of her creation.
A final touch, an artistic eye
Will see amazement, awe.While the widow -sees her fill.

The Boy In The Striped Pajamas (Original Poem)

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt,
Drawing secret wishes with a finger.
Forced to think Auschwitz
Was the homeland he was taken from.
His shaven head covered by
A striped cloth cap,
Matching the one thousands of them wore.
He traces the Star of David
That is bared on his sleeve
And looks with sunken eyes
At his now graying complexion.
A frame so skinny, so sickly thin
That makes his head seem much too big.
The veins with flowing blood
Visible beneath his skin-
The frail bones outlined, sadly.
He can not understand
Why the soldiers don’t like him
And why he can’t find his mother
-But then it is very clear
That his name is what they despised;
Shmuel- branded a Jew
-sent to this camp
Where he can only peer through the fence
Of which he will not escape.

High School Drop-Out (Original Poem)

A moment of self-doubt
A whisper of lost hope
One instant of impulse
A slamming of doors
A single wrong choice
Dozens more to follow
Years of struggle
A lifetime of regret
-Raise your hand; wrong answer.
Frustration consumes you-
Drop your pencil.
One wrong answer too many and
You walk out of the classroom, through the front doors-
Slam behind you-
Curse aloud.
You don’t turn back,
No job, no money, no luck.
Looking back, years of poor
Judgment will envelop your mind-
Will be full of empty thoughts.
No education instilled in your head;
Everyday-
Regretting-
Why you slammed those doors.

An Ode To Nothing Staying Gold And Innocence Fading Away (Original Poem)

Born a golden hue,
Like the sky at dawn
-waiting for daybreak.
Innocence radiates within,
The youthful children of Edom.
But as the sun begins to rise,
Turning the world from innocence
And leaving behind
-only gallantry and green.

Edie Sedgwick: Suburbs To Superstar (An Original Short Story)

“I went to a party one time and had my palms read. She placed her hands over mine to examine them, but then she frowned and looked up at me sadly. I laughed, ‘I know,’ I said, ‘my life line’s broken.’ She said I wouldn’t live past thirty.”
He looked at me with the most peculiar fascination, sweeping his artificially colored hair out of his pale eyes. His fingers were bony and dry from years of dedication, grasping the coffee mug as he brought it up to his thin, chapped lips to take a sip.
I ran my fingers through my short, blond hair; it still smelled like peroxide and I smirked at my now boyish style.
“Edie, you look like a boy. A pretty boy,” he chuckled softly, reaching out to pet me gently on the hand.
I looked out the window. It was like a painting I had done once; the cars jammed together on the narrow pavement with the buildings that seemed to fuse together with the sky. There were people up and down the streets and I felt as if I were a pa rt of them.
“Edie, you’re a superstar” Andy laughed.
“And you, Mr. Warhol, are an artist.”
I used to be an artist. I didn’t always have hair that was an inch long or lashes that enveloped my eyes in feathery blankets. I used to live in Cambridge with my wealthy family- if you could call it a family at all. My father was strict and abusive and my mother was barely there at all. I went to school for art, I loved painting. Then my father stopped paying tuition and I moved to the city to pursue a career. And then, I met Andy.
Andy was tall and thin; his hair spray-painted to match his alabaster skin. He dressed only in black and I thought him to be a homosexual when he first introduced himself. His artwork was beautiful, bur people didn’t see the magnificence of it. He didn’t care, he knew he was talented and he thought I was, too.
He brought me to Studio 54 and cut off my long, dark locks. I was to be in his films; he was going to make me a superstar.
It was only several hours ago that I had been standing on the corner of Linnaean Street, arguing with the pay phone.
“Why are you wasting time painting pictures when you could be studying law?” my father said sternly over the phone.
“Dad I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m an artist.”
“Not as long as you’re a part of this family, you aren’t. I’m not paying for you to daydream all semester, Edith!”
“Well then I guess I’m no longer a part of your family!” I slammed down the receiver and buried my face in my hands.
I exited the phone booth and walked down the road to the train station. I spent the remaining money I had and purchased a ticket that would bring me to Penn Station. I boarded the locomotive and took a seat by the window. Retrieving a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket, I smoothed it out and carefully sketched a large city with traffic stretched out the length of the streets and buildings that rose high above the clouds. I smiled; this is where I was going, this way my escape.
I arrived in New York late in the afternoon and strolled up and down West 54th Street, imagining what great artists and actors were among me. I stared up at the studio and a man with painted white hair smiled down on me. His teeth were a bit crooked and discolored, but his smile was pleasant and I grinned back up at him. I hadn’t know whom he was, but when he held his finger up to the window as if to say one moment I stood waiting on the sidewalk as he disappeared from sight.
I stood shuffling my weight from one foot to another, looking down at the dirty concrete beneath me. A door slammed and I jumped, frightened by the sudden noise.
I looked up and he waved me towards him, “Come along superstar!”
Not contemplating whether or not it was a good idea to be talking to this strange man, I followed at his heels, the door closing softly behind me.
“Sit here, sit here,” he said, patting the black leather sofa that was positioned awkwardly in the middle of the large room.
I did as I was told, pushing my long, dark hair out of my eyes.
“No need for that dear, we’re cutting it off!”
My eyes widened and I looked at him nervously, “you’re doing what?”
“We’re cutting off that pretty hair of yours, I want you to look like a boy,” he said excitedly and without hesitation, grabbed a lock of my hair and cut it off with shiny scissors.
I tried to think of something to say to stop him, but I figured it was already too late and just allowed him to finish what he had started.
When he was through, I had no more than an inch of hair, cropped closely to my head.
He looked at me with a thin hand propped up under his narrow chin before snapping his fingers together, “Aha, we need bleach. I want your hair as white as mine!”
I didn’t argue, instead I nodded my head and within a moment he had peroxide slathered all over my freshly cut hair.
After a while, when my head began to burn with anticipation, he rinsed my hair and handed me a mirror, quite pleased with himself. I grabbed my hair in shock.
“I look like a twelve year old boy!”
He laughed, “I know dear, isn’t it lovely?”
“You truly are an artist, Mr. Warhol.”
“Why thank you eh…what is your name?”
“Edith, Edith Sedgwick.”
“Well Edie, I’m going to make you a superstar.”
Now, Andy laid the money down on the table and slid out of the booth. Grabbing his coat, which was faded with safety pins shoved through the collar, he took my hand and I jumped up from the table. In the last couple of hours, he had become my best friend and I had become his masterpiece.
I’m taking you to a party tonight,” he said with great enthusiasm as we walked hand in hand down Broadway.
“Oh, what for?” I squealed with excitement.
“Me, of course. I’m displaying my artwork.”
“Oh Mr. Warhol, that sounds just delightful!”
We went back to the studio and he ordered me out of my incredibly hideous outfit, as he had described it. He handed me dark tights and a dress that I had mistaken for a shirt. Leading me over to the mirror, he traced my eyes with thick, black makeup and stuck fake eyelashes to my lids that made me look like some sort o exotic bird. Andy looked me over for a minute, tapping on his temple with a slender finger. A smile crept upon his face and he walked into the other room. He came back holding two small chandeliers in his hands which he told me were earrings.
“Edie,” he whispered, “You’re a superstar now.”
We stepped out of the car and were blinded by hundreds of flashing bulbs. He grabbed me by the crook of the arm and led me towards the door. Shoving microphones and video cameras in his face, Andy told everyone that I was a superstar and then we disappeared behind heavy, steal doors.
“Why hello there, who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“I’m Edie, Edie Sedgwick. And you, are Mr. Bob Dylan!”
I giggled nervously and held out my hand which he graciously took in his own, bringing it up to his lips and gently brushing them over the tips of my fingers.
Andy rolled his eyes, signaling that he was going to mingle with a light tap on the shoulder, while I swooned over some young folksinger.
“So Bobby, where do you get the inspiration for such admirable songs?’
“I sing about what I see,” he smirked, reminding me with quivering lips of Elvis Presley.
He was remarkably handsome; he had bronzed, olive skin and clean, well-kept hair that hung about his face nicely. His eyes were dark and mysterious, downcast toward his feet while we spoke. I thought him to be rather awkward for such a well-known public figure.
“Well Miss Sedgwick, what brings you to the city; family?”
“In a way, I’m escaping from them.”
“Escaping? Don’t you have anyone you’ll miss? Brothers or sisters?”
“I had brothers; but they’re dead now. Bobby drown in the pond when he was twelve, Minty hung himself a few years ago…he said I was the only Sedgwick he could ever hope for,” I smiled slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” his cheeks grew flush and he looked around uncomfortably.
I was about to say something when I heard someone call my name from across the room. I looked over a crowd of people to see Andy waving frantically, tapping his hand to his wrist as if to indicate the time.
“Well Mr. Dylan, it was very nice to meet you, but I’m afraid I have to go now.”
I turned to leave and Bobby grabbed me by the arm, he whispered, “you know, you really are something special Edie, I’ll see you around,” and with that he pecked me lightly on the mouth and vanished into the sea of people.
“I don’t like him, that…Dylan fellow,” Andy said, making a disgusted face.
“You don’t even know him, besides, what is there to dislike about the man?”
“I just don’t. He’s so ugly, anyway.”
“Don’t be jealous, Andy. He’s nothing like you! Plus, isn’t that a rather vain thing to say?”
“I am a deeply superficial person,” and with that he waved the thought away and we laughed into the cold, night air.
…
Andy and I would talk on the phone for hours each night about various things happening in the world and in our lives.
“I wonder if people are going to remember us.”
I paused to reposition the phone between my ear and my shoulder, “what, when we’re dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think people will talk about how you changed the world.”
“I wonder what they’ll say about you…in your obituary,” Andy repeated the word several times, obituary, “I like that word.”
“Nothing nice , I don’t think.”
“No no, come on. They’d say ‘Edith Minturn Sedgwick: beautiful artist and actress…’”
“ ‘…and all around loon.’’
“ ‘Remembered for setting the world on fire…’”
“ ‘…and escaping the clutches of her terrifying family.’”
“ ‘Made friends with everybody and anybody…’”
“ ‘Creating chaos and uproar wherever she went. Divorced as many times as she married, she leaves only good wishes behind.’”
Andy laughed, “Well that’s nice, isn’t it?”
It was talks like those that we had for hours each night that I cherished most about our relationship.
…
Over the next couple of months Bobby and I developed a highly intimate relationship, both sexual and romantic. It was when I started telling people that Andy Warhol was a making a movie that both Bobby and I would be acting in, that I knew I had a crush on him. The movie was entitled “Vinyl” and was Andy’s interpretation on the movie “Clockwork Orange.” Although it was an all male cast, he told me I looked boyish enough to play a major character.
We began filming, the boys working out and chain-smoking cigarettes. I smiled at Bobby and he winked.
“Cut!” Andy yelled suddenly.
I looked at him, puzzled, “What was wrong with that?”
“Him…Mr. Dylan, could you move to the back of the room?”
“You won’t be able to see him if he’s all the way back there!”
“Exactly…ready, set, action!”
I stared at him in disbelief then stood up and walked off-screen.
“Edie…Edie, what are you doing?” Andy demanded.
I looked from him to Bobby, “We’re leaving, Mr. Warhol. I’m not getting paid for any of my work and I desperately need the money.”
Bobby and I left the studio, slamming the door with a loud thud. I was furious with Andy, how could be so conceited? It was some sort of insane jealousy that drove him mad when Bobby and I were together. He acted like a different person, rude and self-centered and cocky. It would be days before I would speak to him again.
Bobby rolled his eyes, “you know Edie, you don’t need guys like him. You can be a star baby; you need the money anyways, I’m tired of paying for everything.”
“I can’t take it anymore! I want to die.”
“And why do you want to die, Edie?”
I laughed, “Because my credit’s no good at Bonwit Teller and I just stole thirty dollars worth of underwear at Bergdorfs…and I think I might do it again.”
“You’re crazy, Edie!” Bobby yelled, “You’re an absolute loon! You’ve got that artist fag manipulating everything you do.”
We stood there on the corner of 54th Street, cursing at one another. I kept my eyes fixed on a discarded candy wrapper that was stuck between a crack in the sidewalk. He continued screaming at me as I trembled, trying to fight back my tears.
“Damnit Edie…I’ve got to go.”
I watched him walk across the street quickly and turn the corner; he didn’t even glance back at me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up towards the sky. Shaking my head, I started my journey home…alone.
It wasn’t until three days later that I returned to the studio. I had spent the last seventy-two hours in my apartment with a bottle of wine and heroin injections. My eyes were bloodshot and my pupils were dilated. I hadn’t showered and I smelled of alcohol and sweat. My hair was unkempt and makeup was smeared down my face, but I didn’t care. I opened the door quietly and found Andy lying on the couch I had sat on the first day I arrived in New York.
“Andy…”
“Oh, Miss Sedgwick,” he looked over at me and his eyes widened, “Edie…you’re a mess.”
I put my hand through my rumpled hair, attempting to smooth it out, “Andy I’m sorry.”
“Why do you love him, Edie? He’s no good for you.”
I bit my lower lip gently, “Because I can’t hate him.”
Andy swung his feet off the arm of the sofa and put his hands on his knees, leaning forward. He stared at me for a long time, but he said nothing.
“Thank you for making me a superstar, Mr. Warhol,” I whispered, and with that I walked out of Studio 54 for the last time.
In less than a week my entire life came crashing down around me. I had lost the two people I had cherished most; a quirky, talented artist and a charismatic, beautiful singer. Although the relationships I had with these two men were very different, they were both highly intimate and loving affairs.
I went home to find all of Bobby’s things were gone and an eviction notice on the door. I ripped the yellow slip several times before tossing it to the ground. Sitting on the edge of the bed I rested my head on my knees and wept. I cried for Bobby and Andy and Minty; for my mother and my father, but I did not cry for myself.
I stood up and walked swiftly to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, I looked for anything that would help. I struggled for a moment with the cap before it snapped off and sent the pills pouring into the sink. I smiled down at the colorful drug and scooping them up into my palm, I opened my mouth and let them fall onto my tongue. Swallowing hard, I went to the kitchen, searching for a clean glass. I couldn’t find any, so I rinsed one off in the sink and filled it with vodka until it overflowed onto the counter, dripping down onto the linoleum tiles.
I went to bed to lie down, my whole body aching with pain. I was a few feet from the mattress when I suddenly felt light-headed and dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks. My eyelids began drooping down over my pupils and my vision became blurry. I let my eyes close slowly; I was twenty-nine years old.
…
Edith Minturn Sedgwick died on November 15, 1971. She predicted that her life would be short-lived, but lived life to the fullest.
Andy blamed Bob Dylan for Edie’s drug addiction. When interviewed about Edie’s death, he acted as though he had forgotten that she had ever existed at all. Andy died on February 22, 1987, in his sleep due to post operation complications. Bob Dylan disliked Andy Warhol as he thought him to be too manipulating and controlling over Edie, however he did admit to using Edie as publicity to further his own career. He married Carolyn Dennis in 1986 and they had a child together who was a closely guarded secret until a biography of Dylan’s life was published several years later.

Under That Winter Sky (An Original Poem)

Welcome friends
to my wake
Sorry I missed it
I made a mistake

Too much time wasted
I put the gun to my head
didn't think twice
Now Heaven's ahead

Rise to your feet
you don't have to cry
Just bid me farewell
a final goodbye

No need to pray
I wanted to die
just bury me deep
Under that winter sky