Believe even when the sky seems it'll never turn blue.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC
I will not atone to a world
with swift heavy fists
demanding the bestowing
of my hues.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 8:52 PM UTC
It’s been sixty days since I’ve put pen to paper—
my feelings to ideas—
who I am to what I dream—
I need to read in order to fly.
I need to listen in order to guide.
Alone I fish the Atlantic with my fears
I can’t cherish raw moments with my peers.
I’ve returned to prove I’m brave.
I don’t want to be normal.
I want to embrace my crooked thoughts—
my dry skin—I want to see colors.
I’m not just living in an idea.
I want to make reality my realm.
Somewhere I can feel love and cherish
the clouds—my spirit dust.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
I don't want to smile.
There's no use of showing teeth or feeling God's air against them.
If you want pain--I have the keys to the shed.
If you want love--
I'm on that ship headed north.
I can't promise you I'll return from this journey.
But I want it--I am human.
And I must find the hues I don't own.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 7:54 PM UTC
She fears planes
because she’s always been scared to fly.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
I am he that needs redemption—
Does the Earth know exemption?
A boy and his pen I dream of books.
A boy and his pen I dream of quasar.
Now redemptions on your mind when you think about me.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 4:03 PM UTC
I was ready to love you in white trim
You found delight in embarrassing me.
You taught me that night—
I’m not him.
These pages I overwrite
with words I whip to curse you
like a purple gallinule
may you never soar.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC
He wasn’t a flower
they were too exquisite. (although he wanted to be, so he could make people sneeze)
He wasn’t a cypress
they were too resilient. (otherwise he would have cracked the concrete)
He was born a ****
(A yard reckoning wild black mamba)
In the ground, he felt smothered,
digging to a world he never knew.
He was an anomaly
someone who no one desired to water.
He was a problem,
a pest,
something like
Fruit flies in a Florida summer
He was a stain,
a blood smear on an angel white Kleenex.
He was a pain,
a sturdy lump in her kidney the doctor had to explain.
He dug through boggy dirt,
carving away.
He dug through swampy mud
while the sky hiccupped tears,
constantly, continuously making
a path that he could climb.
He wanted—freedom
a love amongst the elegant lantana.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC