When I was five,
my mother told me I was loved.
Years later, she asked me to leave because
I was the reminder of the gruesome past that haunted her.

When I was ten,
my father told me he believed in me.
Years later, he refused to accompany me because
I was an embarrassment to him in front of the society.

When I was fifteen,
my friends told me I was funny.
Years later, they all laughed at me because
I was the gullible teenager who fell for their flawless façade.

When I was twenty,
this guy said I was beautiful.
Years later, he trashed me, tormented me because
I was ignorant enough to overlook my inevitable flaws.

So, sorry for not believing in you,
for questioning your intentions, inclusively, in-depth
when you told me you loved me because
I didn’t want to wind up years later,
learning it the hard way that people often don’t mean what they say.

I keep my old pill bottles.
not because I plan to reuse them,
or fill them with extra beads,
stray sewing needles
random coins,
a travel pack of Q-tips,
or tiny paint tubes that I might use to somehow make my mental illnesses art.
I keep my old pill bottles because they are me.
I keep my old pill bottles because they are one month of me.
they are not me because they have my name,
address,
medicine,
doctor,
pill quantity,
pharmacy,
Rx number printed on them in ******* ink.
they are me because they held the chemicals my body could not dream of creating.
What they hold is not beautiful. it is not deep.
it is a second leg you have to re-stitch every day because your body didn't know how to grow one.
Those bottles hold the pills that make me, me.
I feel because of them,
I sleep because of them,
I live because of them.
Before them, I was not human.
I was a body with partial instructions.
Every Month I have to get another extension of myself from the local CVS.
Every month I put an empty bottle in the box on my nightstand because that bottle held what I was last month.

it's strange looking at a small white pill knowing that someday this month, that pill will be the reason you react to something important the way you did or the one you forget to take causing a break down in your English class.

It's strange how I can be manufactured so easily.

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived

When a poet falls in love with you,
You will be his queen
You will be the most beautiful lady that they have seen
You will be the subject and protagonist in every story and scene
Because when a poet falls in love with you,
that poet will take away your fears and sorrow
and you can be **** sure that he will wipe away your tears and for you, he sure as hell will catch an arrow
and he will promise you that there is a beauty in every tomorrow

when a poet falls in love with you,
he will surely give you all of his time and attention,
love and affection,
gives you all of his protection,
as if you're the most precious masterpiece in his entire creation
and in times that you'll feel you're all alone,
he will become your favorite superhero without a cape on
because a poet knows how powerful the words are-
he will build your dreams up and through his words, you will become immortal
you will be the center of his universe, you will be his stars and moon
and even though you're thousand miles apart he will never be tired in saying "see you soon"

Because when a poet falls for you,he will use all of his vocabulary
his words,letters, sentences and paragraph will be his armory
because for him, nothing is more precious than seeing his girl happy

I love her.

With her dark brunette hair,
always down over her shoulders in cascading waves,
Or ******* behind her head so that I can see her eyes.

Oh, her eyes.
Bright and alluring and sweet.
Alight with a smile that compares only to the one on her lips.

And her lips.
Always tilted up in a bashful smile.
And one side always goes higher than the other,
But I don't tell her because I think it's cute, and I don't want her to stop.

Someday she'll kiss me.
Because I'll never be brave enough to try myself.
And the lips I love so much will touch mine.

I love her

For her hair and her eyes and her lips and her mind,
Which is logical, but with a hint of romance and a vast imagination,
An artistic eye and a sweet, flustered girl just beside that.

She's perfect.

And I love her.

I love her so much.

all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am