Bright pink clouds, Sun’s dying breath.
A final push, and a final shot.
Climbing the sky, an indigo depth.
A daily war, and a nightly loss.
Full darkness now, no moon tonight.
A devastating defeat, life on its knees.
Hours and hours, no natural light.
Still life continues, the bugs and the trees.
A brightening starts, to gray from black.
A new day, a new battle.
Rising sun peeks above and starts to attack.
We wait now, in bright blue, for its next death rattle.

I remember this road deeply.
An ache in my gut as I drive.
I can feel these familiar turns.
A cradling, loving welcome.
I used to live on this street.
A place I drove past often.
I used to play in that house.
An address I still remember.
I used to create in that room.
A haven that felt like safety.
I used to sleep in that bed.
A comfort a lifetime away.
I miss the way home felt.
A sensation much like pain.

She doesn’t yell at anyone.
She laces her words with deadly poison.
Her voice is always so very sweet,
when she decides to finally speak.
Venom, it pours out of her mouth.
Especially when her tone goes south.
I am her victim, though I’m her son.
Sadder still, I am not the only one.
My sister, brothers, father still,
are all her victims, her precious ****.
But why does this woman hurt us all?
She was hurt once, so we all take the fall.

She sinks into the waves as the full moon casts its glow upon her.
Through the murky water, she cannot hear the howling wolves.
As she fades into the darkness, her subconscious dreams ignite.
Visions of her past and future dance in her mind as she falls
further into the deep. Her red hair flows past her face. Stars
twinkle like the bubbles floating from her lips to the surface.
She is adrift within her own mind. She may drown within it.

Maybe I’ll be happy
Maybe when I’m twenty-five
Maybe I’ll be home
Maybe if I’m still alive

Maybe I’ll be different
Maybe when I’m forty-five
Maybe I’ll be content
Maybe if I’m still alive

I know I was hiding
I know I was only five
But I was not innocent
I’m surprised I’m still alive

I am now nineteen
I still feel scared and small
I am not the same person
I will try to stay alive
And maybe rescue us all

We stood together as brothers in arms.
Our side was small, both in stature and numbers.
Fighting daily battles, we knew the war was lost.
The tattered battlefield was a living room carpet.
We received no weapons, but our enemy did.
Armed with wooden spoons and open palms.
We retaliated with tears and with silent obedience.
The yelling in the house echoed like explosions.
In that grey one-story house, my siblings and I.
We stood together as brothers in arms.

Why do I growl when I'm upset?
Grrr I want to hold you
Grrr I need your touch
Grrr please help me
Maybe I growl because the only part of me that is allowed to feel pain is the Beast.
Maybe the Beast lurks behind my tongue,
wanting to scream, but only able to scare.
I pity this Beast. It does not bite, and it cannot bark.
Its sole connection to the world is a defensive, angry, growl.

I soak up rays of warmth from the sun
as it covers my limbs like a blanket.
I am calm, content, and curious.
My curiosity is unbridled,
and my creativity is bolstered
by the satisfaction I feel.
I wish to grow and reach new heights.
This freedom comes from the sun,
as my leaves photosynthesize its warmth into energy.
My stem reaches taller, and new leaves unfurl.
I create a new version of myself with every sunny day.

The tide waves goodbye as I drive back to the mountains of my home.
Though there is no snow at their shallow peaks,
I miss those fall colors which raised me to wonder.
I wonder where the mountains meet the sea.
I wonder if those who only see one or the other
will ever truly understand the beauty this earth provides.
The tide waved goodbye,
and then the leaves on the mountain trees waved hello again.

I love her, but her mind grows weak.
The doctors say she may have a month, maybe a week.
Together, we tell stories. Me, more than her.
The ones that we laugh at and half remember.
I don’t know what I’ll do the day that she dies.
“Together forever” really meant the rest of our lives.
I hope I’ll see her in the great everafter.
But until then, I sit with her and treasure her laughter.

“Hello” is a bad word that sits at the tip of her tongue.
Like a snake’s venom, it is always there, always ready.
It lies in wait, hoping for the next unsuspecting victim.
The pain is preceded by hope. A glimmer of “Maybe.”
Maybe when those fangs sink into me, it won’t hurt me.
Maybe the sweet anaconda embrace is a hug this time.
Maybe this is the last time her hissed hello will bite me.

Anger lingers here.
Like a ghost,
She haunts these hallways.

Anger lingers here.
Like a specter,
She hides in the shadows.

Anger lingers here.
Like a poltergeist,
She possesses my limbs.

Anger lingers here.
Like a phantom,
She screams in the dead of night.

Anger lingers here.
Like a wraith,
She whispers in the silence.

Anger lingers here.
Like a shade,
She wanders aimlessly.

Anger lingers here.
Like a spirit.
She must be set free.

I crave soft touches and gentle words.
Reassuring hands holding mine in the
darkness of this world. Sweet humanity
cradling my soul as I no longer fear for
the present. I wish for tender care given
by rough hands, silky hands, and every
hand in between. Love isn’t shown in
bravery or strength. It is shown in kind-
ness and compassion. Love is as bright
and soft as a full moon on a starry night.

History has always had your back.
Society will always stab you in it.
Let heads roll low on the ground,
While you hold your head high.
Might doesn’t ever make right.
The strongest among us are always
those with naught but compassion
and kindness growing in their hearts.
Weeds, they will always grow back.
Society will tell you that there is no
difference between strength and will.
History tells us that will is stronger.

We are all heroes in someone’s story.
A brief moment.
A needed word.
A helping hand.

We all question if we’re the bad guy.
In the sink, we see blood.
In the mirror, we see the villain.
In our heads, we hear the victims.

We all are just normal people in the end.
Flying through life.
Saving the people we love.
Protecting what we care about.

We may be the heroes after all.

Your sickening words
Are a bitter ambrosia.

Your compliments insult
As piercing as a dagger.

You make me bleed
Divine drops of gold.

You made me holy
To **** my mortality.

I am not ready to die
And be cursed by life.

I am unwilling to serve
Under your command.

I was willing to once,
But now I have learned.

I was a foolish mortal soul
Who was tricked by a god.

We do not sleep. Our all-seeing eyes do not close to rest.
Our ethereal bodies don’t have such mundane needs.

But we do dream.
Vivid imaginations are one of our token traits.
Through our dreams, we create schematics and prototypes.
We test theories and explore ideas in our superconscious minds.

After all, human…
What is mankind if not
a dream that the gods
decided to write down
in dirt and blood?

The look on her face is longing.
A subtle pout. Distant eyes.
She looks out the window at the sunset.
Yet another day spent quietly alone.
Plans were made to end the quiet.
Those plans were canceled. She longs
for community, connection, camaraderie.
She wishes for acceptance and empathy.
Alas, she must open the door
to welcome in such things.
So she sits on the floor.
With longing painted on her face.

Golden light streams from the heavens.
Streaks of vibrancy smear the sky,
Tearing into the clouds, as the sun descends on the earth.
Like rockets, an explosion of color decorates the above.
With fiery love, a sunset falls like a sparkling firework.
Eyes watch as the brilliant bombing takes the light from the hills.
Alas, night has overtaken the warzone of the sky’s stage once more.
May the battle continue tomorrow.

My earrings are handmade by hands that don’t love me.
The fingers that bent metal into joyous, beautiful shapes were my own.
But I struggle to love those hands.
I struggle to love the body or mind attached to them too.

I was raised by hands that don’t love me.
Ever since I was small, I’ve known somewhere
that my tiny fingers were only valued
once they grew into working hands.

We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
There was camaraderie and kindness, but no love.
We held hands out of obligation.
Firmly grasping onto each other’s palms,
We feared that the other would suspect something.
With this thought passing through both of our minds,
We stayed together for months.
Pretending to care for each other,
Believing our lover loved us more,
Living a lie, and trying to believe it.

Food and sleep to stay alive.
Medications to stay stable.
Friends to stay happy.
Love to start living.

What is living? Is it the opposite of dead?
No, that’s survival. Is it eating, and sleeping?
No, that’s being alive. Living is different.
Living is choosing to do those other things for an ultimate concern.
Living is doing more than those things
to experience your life to the fullest capacity possible.

After darkness fell, stars shone on the outside.
On Chestnut Street, he came to her bedside.
He sat by her deathbed, feeding her soup.
Her pale thin lips barely covered the spoon.
He told her stories he’s told her before.
She tries to breathe with ribs frail and sore.
After many hours, she falls gently asleep.
He hears her last breath and prays God, her soul, will keep.

It started with one. A small hole from a nail.
The first on the surface, paint color “Light Hail.”
The next was an accident. A **** with no stop.
They patched it well and carefully covered it up.
Over the years, nails, screws, and anchors,
With shelves, paintings and furniture.
One time, their son poked through with a pencil,
But it did little compared to his teenage knuckles.

The clean pages of paper I write on,
Differ greatly from the Google Doc I type on.
These titanium white sheets will be covered with time,
But an endless stream of opportunities is presented by
The typing exercise, using my computer to cope.
The words that I write encourage my hope.
Poems and prose that echo love and truth.
All the things I learned from my youth.

I miss what I never had.
Gentle reassurance and soft, loving encouragement.
Gentleness was not written in my mother’s movements
like a ballet dancer’s practiced pirouettes.
Her movements were more like my handwriting.
Jagged and coarse. Discordant and unrythmic.
I wonder though, were her movements intentional?
Were they truly meant to hurt and scare?
Or were they an absentminded reflection
of her own hurt and scars?

Painted on her face
is the longing for something
she can’t even fathom.
Its brushstrokes grace her brows
as a sorrowful cluster
of wrinkles cover her forehead.
Carefully colored eyes
show the depth of underwater trenches.
A palette knife covered her jaw with tightness.
She craves safety, security, and softness.
She was so carefully crafted
by those who deprived her
of tender touches and love.

Spots of ink adorn my hands.
I hope my writing crosses the lands.
With joy and tears following its path,
I hope it inspires someone’s inner wrath.
Today, I’ll write like lightning struck me.
Tomorrow, they’ll read what I wrote and see
The truth lies on ink-filled pages,
Written by these unknown sages.
Together, the ink, it will congeal,
Making truth and making life real.

Where does art come from?
It comes from pain for some.
Others find it in joy or glee.
Some are struck by creativity.
Regardless of its origins,
Art is where humanity begins.
Drawing, writing, even dance.
Any art form is romance,
With the universe and the world.
A timeless tango forever twirled.
It’s the greatest story ever told.
Art is worth more than gold.

I feel like TV static.
Not quite blurry.
Definitely unclear.
There's something there,
but it's hard to make out.

I feel like TV static.
Black and white.
So very loud.
Trapped behind the glass,
I reach out and get shocked.

I feel like TV static.
Old VHS tapes.
Nothing plays.
It hurts me as I try to focus.
It hurts to try to remember.

Regal, he sits on a planet all his own.
Supreme authority is held within his scepter.
Calmly, he guides his people to safety and comfort.
Compassion drives his leadership,
And his kindness helps him take care of those he protects.
He shields his flock under his eagle’s wings.
Rain and wind cannot reach them when they trust in him.

We are bugs under his shoes.
Not a loved child, in terrible two’s.
Disobedient children couldn’t be so far.
We are grains of sand, and he is a star.
Trample our cities under his feet.
We believe he loves us, an epic conceit.
So full of ourselves, we hope he will serve us.
We pray for glory, success, and surplus.

Reach high into the air, towards the trees
bearing the fruits of your labor.
You have tended them with care for so long,
and now they are heavy. Laden with new growth,
they are begging to be lightened. Reap the benefits
and harvest the rewards of your hard work.
You deserve to imbibe on the nectar of your toil.

The beach spray there was downright heavenly.
Then salty tears streamed down my bright red face.
Was my face red from crying or a growing sunburn?
I asked this question as I slowly came to in a hospital.
The IV in my arm dripped clear liquid into my veins.
I’m sorry that my solutions are always so very saline.

I hope you are cleansed one day.
After your life fades away.
I know you won’t change overnight.
Because after decades,
you still ignore my plight.
I can only hope you will be purified.
But not in a way that is dignified.
No, you must be burned and smote by fire.
Because only flames can cleanse a liar.

It feels like you’re too close to me.
You push everyone else away from me.
They try to move closer,
But you shove yourself between them and I.
Cramped into the space of one person,
We push against each other constantly.
You push me down, smaller. I push back.
Tightly confined, I’m trapped with you, by you.

It spreads through her like the cancer in her bones.
It takes her strength, but supports her weakness.
She tries to **** it with therapies and medicine,
but it grew back stronger every time. It is her.
A part of her she couldn’t cut out or off.
It is killing her and hurting those around her.

My shoulders are burdened
by the weight of all the lives I'm living.
My head hurts because my neck
supports all the people I’ve become.
Laden with hats, my hair hides
underneath the tokens of every job I do.
Deep within, I still fear that this is not enough.
Will it ever be enough?

I think I’m an *******. What’s my excuse?
Well, it came from my parents’ emotional abuse.
Their parents before them. And theirs before them.
So, there! That’s my reason for not being a gem.
But reasons and excuses have nothing to say
To protect you from criticism at the end of the day.

As the sea rises, the stern falls.
The moon is my last view before blackness consumes it all.
Waves beat me like an angry horde.
Ropes circle my neck like an assassin's cord.
I take my last breath, half of it water,
Before my untimely death. My body sinks under.

I was torn apart as a child.
My fragmented pieces grew like weeds, unwatered, unwanted.
I was unwanted as a teenager.
My identity is what made my mother cry, revolted, restless.
I am restless as an adult.
My anger is what keeps me up at night, terrified, torn apart.

Righting our parents’ wrongs is very hard,
And fixing broken minds can be even harder.
Maybe we should try harder to fix our behavior.
Cause our behavior can harm more than it helps.
Our impact is always affected by our intent,
And we must always try to be kind.

Let the world read the words you have written.
Let them sink in like fangs that have bitten.
Into the flesh and into the soul.
Filling the deepest and darkest of holes.
Voids in our minds and caves in our hearts.
Filled to the brim with beautiful art.

I am not a violent dog.
I know not why I bite.
Fear is not an emotion.
I do not feel fear in my head.
Fear lies in my gut.
As my shoulders tense,
and the hair on the back
of my neck is raised,
I feel fear.

One man’s outbreak
Another man’s breakthrough
It struck us all
In different ways
It struck us all

We lost many
Despite our best efforts
Still mourning
We are all
Still mourning

We tried to connect
Through screens and masks
Locked inside
While we were
Locked inside

One step forward, two steps back.
I’m trapped in an endless tango.
My dancing partner is Bad Luck.
Tied together with chains of fate,
We strut across the wooden floor.
With every attempt to leave this
Spinning choreography tornado,
I am twirled back into his arms.

I may never forget how I lost him.

Though the details are muddied
By tears and dreams.

I will never forget the look in his eye
As she ripped him apart with ease.

After all this time, I still don’t know
how
she
did
it

Your questions have
been selected carefully.

Like bullets in a gun,
they are loaded.

“How are you?”
Shoot me once.

“How’s your job?”
Shoot me twice.

“How is school?”
One by one.

The bullets land.
Wear me down.

Break my heart
and my skin.

Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.

Comforted by the bitter.
When your heart twitters,
You pull back and shiver.
Realize that you are a liver.
Not an ***** meant to filter,
But a human just off-kilter.
Realign your soul to peace.
Adjust your path, jump in the leaves.