there is a certain kind of motherhood
only an older sister knows is true
to not have borne a son from womb
but to have a friend of same blood
be a son, a gift and a light too
there must be some divinity in this
to be the one he calls on when
the cupboard is kilimanjaro for this little stranger
who is on some days foe and most days love
to be the santamaria as he climbs
on your own young shoulder blades
searching for ****** shores in worn out rooms
to be stronger than the thunder
that rumbles outside his bedroom window
to be stronger than you usually are
for the little boy whose arms cling onto you for peace
even when you are as pale as the moonlight
he claims to have followed him into our home
there is some strange purpose in this
to be guardian, disciplinarian, caretaker and girl
all at once
when our mother is too drunk to hug her son
when our father says nothing but hello
there is a kind of love
only a sister knows hurts this much
when that little snip of a man grows into boyhood
just as he grew out of your arms
when you are no longer every wonder of the world
you are simply a companion
and on good days: a comrade
always a sister and mostly a friend
there is a strange pull of the heart
at the sight of boyhood in motion
to see him cry and laugh and hurt just as you once did
to bear witness to his ripe exploration of the cosmos
and you think to yourself: were you ever this young?
he looks at you with eyes that mirror your own
yes. yes you were
there is a certain kind of motherhood
only an older sister knows is true
it is the nostalgic repetition of summers that once
seemed to last forever
it is holding your brother tight
when he is brave icarus before the fall
even more so when the time for tragedy comes
and your young, young brother realizes
that he does not bleed ichor like the gods
he bleeds red very much like his sister
there is so much love in this

Collapsing under its own gravity,
The sun dies a little every day.
Every morning is a reminder,
Of its resilience,
Every night a tale of its loss.

A star shines brightest,
The more closer to death it gets,
Every constellation is a reminder,
that art wears melancholy the best.

Leaning in for a kiss,
The moon creates ripples in the sea's heart
Always reaching out, but never touching,
Every full moon is a reminder,
That it's possible to find contentment
While still longing.

how could all these masters
of art and vision
of poetry and of prose
of love and of passion
of life and of death
create so seamlessly,
create things that matter to others?
how could they have ideas
streaming from their minds,
and translated into beautiful things
that need not ask to be noticed?
i'd like to think it was because
they worked with heart
but why is it that even if my heart is screams
with all the things i want to share
i try to paint
i try to sketch
to write
to sing little songs
they never come out quite right
or matter to anyone else?
why is it that my heart
with all its storms and whirlwinds
never seems to be enough
to create something beautiful?

don't pin the bird's wings
don't keep it in its cage
let it fly as it may
in the light of day.

believe in its wide eyes
don't heighten its fear—
it has seen the world
and loved enough
to know where it wants to be.

set the bird free,
and instead
watch the sun shine
on its lustre glowing wings,
hear it sing the song
of a heart that is finally free,
listen to its story
when it describes the world
in its eyes,
and watch its graceful form
as it flies through blue skies.

don't pin the bird's wings
don't keep it in its cage
let it finally see the light of day,
let it fly as it may.

days fly by quickly
like leaves in the wind
but let's not worry—
together we can watch them drift away
time promises of more beautiful days
and by your side i will stay.