have you ever drank a river?
stretched your lips over it's banks
and ****** everything —
the fishes,
the canoes,
and the boots
that sunk 5 years ago.

I am so thirsty that if I could stretch my mouth
around this planet
and crunch the glaciers,
swallow the oceans,
and breathe in the clouds —

It would not still be enough.

But see what nature did.
It gave me a small mouth
and a mind that believes
that a cupful
is enough.

I am not a poet.
I write poetry.
Once I proclaim: "I write poetry,"
The expectation for what I write will increase, and the room for me to be just me will decrease.
I will not always construct edgy poems, yes they are thoughts that trickle and are caught in my hands, but there are some times where my words are formed from the desire to create a heart warming feeling, to freeze in time a memory which stained me, to motivate myself to do better or to remember the memory of me doing better.

At times my mind is empty.
Not because I do not think.
But my desire to open up is closed up.

And that's fine,
Because I am not a poet,
I am someone who writes poetry.

I am not soft spoken but you bring a different side out of me.

My tongue, musters confessions of condescending curses.

My mind it races to find the wrongs in others, because I'm, I am blameless.

I am not soft spoken but you, you bring a different side out of me.

I want to hold you close, cover you bountiful cheeks with kisses.

Feed you meals that would keep you warm day after day.

Watch you grow up to become the great woman God has called you to be, You bring the warm side out of me.

For some reason I want to protect you, make you laugh and listen to you speak.

Woman I am not soft spoken.
But look at what you have done to me.

He is famished.
Sits in one corner all alone, he watches them speak, lips smiling but his mind is elsewhere.

Now they are hovering over him, seeking to flatter him he restrains himself from doing the same to the school of friends that pass and to the flocks of girls wander.

He is hungry; famished.
his heart yearns for comfort, embrace, encouragement.

His eyes tearing up, lips quivering he seeks to hide his emotions.
He must be emotionless, uninterested until he becomes interesting.

If madness had a son,
he'd name it insanity.
Pain and anger would be his siblings.
His sister would be named maladaptive, day dreaming she would cause.
Hallucinations would be her twin.
Bitterness and pride would be their brethren.

I am the embarrassment I felt  when he censored over me.

I am the heartbeats I dismissed  when I saw him breathe over me.

I am the joy I feel each day when I see you drift by.

This peace that now transcends within me because you are not longer what I thought you would be.