You sometimes think you want to disappear,
but all you really want is to be found.
I wasn’t wanting a specific answer.
What I wanted was to know.
Let me find you.

Drive me to a cheap motel.
Pay for a week, the one after as well.
But what do I do when I can’t save up money?
“We’ll worry about it if it happens, honey.”
Daddy, I’m scared, and Mommy I’m tired.
If you push too hard, I might just expire.
I’m losing time, and I’m losing hope.
So I just tend to dissociate to cope.
I made three new alters in just the last week,
But you don’t listen, don’t know what that means.
I do want to survive, live, be alive,
But I’ll need more help if you want me to survive.
Please love me now, like I needed love then.
If not as a parent, at least as a friend?
Mom, I know you hate me. No, no, it’s true,
But the only person you hate more is you.
And Dad, I don’t lie when I love you I say,
But stand for yourself, not your wife, just one day.
You both have raised me, shaped me, molded me,
But the person you think I am isn’t the person I wanna be.
I’m your son, though I know it’s hard to adjust.
I find it hard to love and harder to trust.
The people who raised me, taught me, bathed me.
When I ask for acceptance, don’t make me say please.
In the end, we all need therapy, I think,
But don’t dismiss the truth I will speak.

“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.

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?

I’ll tell you a story, one you’ve forgotten.
About an apple tree with roots that are rotten.
This tree made apples, deformed, not round.
Spoiled and smelling, they fell to the ground.
Near to the tree, they seemed far from useful.
No creature would eat them to make themselves full.
But these apple seeds were untouched, unspoiled.
By removing the rot, in water that boiled,
The farmer could purify these seeds,
Use them for his needs,
Even though they were rotten.
Don’t let this story be forgotten.

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.

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.

Bite my lip, make it bleed.
Not a lover, it’s just me.
Tearing my skin
Bleeding begins.
The blood cries like I do.
On lonely nights,
Blood on my lips.
I start to slip
Into a haze
That lasts for days

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.

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.

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.

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

Dear One… No. Feared One.
I want an apology, an epiphany. Why can’t you see what you’ve done to me?
You say, “I don’t believe.” *****, please! I see it in your walk, the pain in every step.
Do you hear it when I talk, the nights that I have wept? There is pain in every word
because none of them are heard. Past your bleeding lies, but I just use my eyes.
To see past your deception, every little false conception. Should I even mention
How you failed to mention that I am your reflection? Your twisted perception
Paints you as the victim. I am your creation. Why would you create me as I am,
but hate me as I became myself? You hate yourself. You see a mirror in my blue eyes, And your many lies are laid bare. I tear through the ******* to see you.
Alone and afraid of what you have made. Oh, Feared One, you thought I was done?
I have just begun. You’re not the only one who’s words are loaded like a rifle.
Other’s think it’s just a trifle, but your words are a weapon which you’ve chosen
to harm. Sound the alarm, but my f-bomb won’t do as much damage
as your constant brain hemorrhage.

I watched her become numb.
I watched as nothing reached
past the fog surrounding her mind.

The constant disconnect between her and everything around her scared me.
When she stopped smiling with her eyes, it scared me.
When she became unrecognizable, it scared me.

Her death was a surprise to no one.
But it was a relief to some.
She had been a bright light in so many lives.
Her radiance and color were unlike anyone else.
Watching it dull into gray fog made us feel
like the whole world was losing color.

The funeral was as solemn as her last few months had been.
Not everyone had seen her descent into dullness.
Her dementia-muddled mind was uninterested
in the friends and family who did come to see her.

She lived as a dear friend to me and many others,
but she died a stranger to all. May she rest in color,
and may the people she left behind always remember
her vibrant life.

Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?

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.

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.

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.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

‘Love yourself,’ they say.
How can I reach that goal when
I am the monster under my own bed?
I inspire panic and hesitation in myself daily.
How can I love someone I’ve feared for so long?

I’d like a coffee.
Which is strange,
because I don’t like coffee.
I don’t feel like myself today.

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.

What makes a tragedy?
A hero in the wrong story
A child in the wrong household
A man in the wrong marriage
A woman in the wrong family

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.

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.

Love me tender and soft under the black sky and white moon.
Love me soft and kind on days that I need more help than others.
Love me kind and gentle in ways that I may never repay.
Love me gentle and tender because I have not always been loved.
I have been loved harshly before, and it left scars inside and out.
I have been loved roughly before, and the effects of it still surprise me.
I have been loved wildly before, and I thought I was wild too.
I have been loved aggressively, and I took it as a compliment.
Love me tender and soft because truly I have never been loved.

Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
When your wings flap in less than a heartbeat’s time,
Do you fear a time when they will no longer help you soar?
Through the trees, you fly, seeking sweet nectar.
Do you fear the day the flowers die, and the nectar runs out?
Or are you too simple? Or maybe are you too pure?
Are you untouched by such a trivial, yet complex emotion?
Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
Or are you a better form of being than me?

The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

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?

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.

Beginning are opportunities
For failure.
And flight.
Endings are opportunities
For darkness.
And light.
But you are an opportunity
To set my
heart alight

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.

Dear… you,

Whoever you may have been is lost now.
Like a tide carrying away a clam, your fate was taken from you.
Was it gentle, like a beach wave lapping at a tourist’s toes?
Was it violent, like a riptide carrying a surfer out to sea?

I wonder what kind of pearl might have been hidden in that clamshell.
Was it beautiful, full of shimmering possibility and light?
Was it warped, shaped and formed uniquely to match you?
The world may not have liked the pearl, concealed by two halves of a whole.

But I think I would have. I think that sparkly gem would even be my favorite.  
Made unlike any other, its color, shape, size, weight, and beauty would make it
perfect, perfect for me. I would cherish that pearl, wear it around my neck. Like a medal, it would rest between my *******, shining in unison with my imperfect teeth.

But you are not a pearl. You are not anything. You could have been so much, and I would give all that I’ve done, all that I am, all that I know, to see who you would be.
If only I could… You could be so happy here. I’m sorry that chance was taken from you.
I took that chance away from you. Well, it wasn’t only me; it wasn’t a decision I made.

These are just excuses. I can’t undo what has been done, but please know I am sorry.

With love that was saved just for you,
A Mother Figure but Never a Mother

Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the many people I have lost,
but for those I have never had to begin with.
My mother is somehow on both lists,
though I’m sure she doesn’t think so.
My father’s name sits next to hers on the list,
As he always sits next to her. By her side,
And on her side every time, every day.
My grandmother was on the first list
until the day she revealed her soul to me.
Her heart had wrinkles and scars more
gruesome than her youthful smile could hide.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the mistakes I’ve made,
But for the memories I didn’t.
My childhood sits at the top of the list,
A foggy blur of grey and white.
My mother’s genuine smile is beside it,
A beautiful sight I think I’ll never see.
My birthdays are each lined up neatly,
Each one a day set aside just for me.
The last thing on the list is scratched out.
Someone I swear I knew once, but don’t
Remember even the song of their name.

Despite the night’s serenity,
calm is far from what I feel.
There is only a slight breeze
as the storm inside rages on.

A year has passed since it
happened. Beginning and
ending all in one fell swoop.
Even now I don’t know the…  

Truth is a feeling, an under-
standing that seeps into your
being, that brings peace.
Or so I thought.

This truth only brings a storm,
a hurricane whipping around
my mind as I want to scream.
Truth does not always bring
peace. Sometimes it brings pain.

I mourn the self that was taken from me.
A beautiful woman that I’ll never be.
A stunning reflection that I’ll never see.

Instead, a short man, barely any stubble.
Will be made, created, formed out of her rubble.
In a sense, I’m two people, metaphorically double.

I’m the man that I am, but also her too.
She lies in the organs and ******* that I grew.
She never would have existed if earlier I knew.

She is my body, and he is my mind.
Though sometimes I want to, I can’t leave either behind.
I hope if they were to meet me, they’d say I am kind.

It’s time to begin something new.
Something small that never grew.
It’s time to bury something old.
A long story far overtold.

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.

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.

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.

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
Pecks were thrown around like nuts and bolts.
A small smooch was passed back and forth
like a screwdriver whenever it was needed.
A large kiss was given like a rotary saw.
It was handed over with caution and care.
The sloppy, makeout kisses sat as unused
As an oddly sized wooden board, one that sat
Along the wall with no purpose or project.
Excuses to not hold hands littered our home
like small screws and nails litter a garage.
Love sat in the back corner of our lives,
And work took its place as our purpose.
Our love dwindled. As did the number
of tools and supplies we used to maintain it.

A wise man has told me things that aren’t true.
A child has told me the secrets of the universe.

Knowledge is not limited to those with privilege and power.
Knowledge is often used to right the wrongs of those in control.
Knowledge is a tool that empowers the wielder with strength.

When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a pen to create.
When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a sword to protect.

When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a concealing blindfold.
When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a restricting rope.

Knowledge can create and protect freedom, joy, and even life.
Knowledge can be used to conceal and restrict the same things.

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.

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.

Uphill battles may be ahead,
but they are also behind us.
Do not follow Sisyphus’s footsteps.
Reach your goals and be complete.

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.

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.

Pitchforks torment us all silently
Ghosts in their sheets and the devils
Lingering among the Halls
It is full of strangers
A strange emptiness
The bleached white walls
This strange place
Is not
Death