I will write one last
poem which bleed
from my wounds

And in its final verse,
I will write a rhyme,
and say, weeping,
what my heavy
heart truly feels

i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

What if every little thought
That lives inside your head
Instead of hiding away in there
Was spoken out, was said?

Would you be embarrassed?
Would you hate your mouth?
Would you rather be mute
Than let the truth come out?

What if every little thing
That people thought of you
Instead of being tucked away
Was heard, was listened to?

Would you be ashamed?
Would you cover your ears?
Would you rather be deaf
Than let the truth come near?

And what if every image
That passes through your thoughts
Was freed from its prison
To roam until it rots?

Would you be disgusted?
Would you look away?
Would you rather be blind
Than see your thoughts at play?

if they say a one-word poem,
i'll write your name...

Spiraling
                down
                          a pit
                                  of anxiety.

                     When suddenly


                          A

                          f

    ­                      r

                          e

           ­               e

                          f

                  ­        a

                          l

                         ­ l

                    headfirst
                    short
                    sharp
            ­        burst.

                          And then

P     r     o     c     r   a    s    tination
spilled         un   e   ve       nly

           on a tiled bathroom floor.

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.