All the silence does not mean
You are alone,
It is the world waiting for you
To listen;
And in the darkness you are
Found by the light
Of your hope.

And in the tears of your
Pain you are born,
There you become stronger
And it creates order.

Pick up your flesh as your spirit
Lifts,
And speak your happiness
As if the tip of your tongue
Was the mountain's peak
Speaking at the sky,
The burden is a caged bird
And only the conscious can set
It free.
And sing to yourself so that
You know you are never alone
In your body.

Know that your crazy is beautiful
Because it makes you YOU,
Wear your skin like
Your cozy blanket and cuddle
In the warmth of yourself.
     You are not broken,
But scattered like the night
With pieces like stars shining,
    Open your pain and yourself
To the wound of the world and heal
Whatever you choose.

why can't you all stop lining your pockets with gold-studded fleece while every ounce of creativity in the lower rungs of the ladder is dubbed "crazy"?

i don't want it to slow.
my brain is my friend.
keep her alive.

keep her ALIVE.

halting d2 receptors is not a cure for shorter-cut sleeves-
it's a pharmacological disease disguised as a dreamer in heat,
as a simple lighthouse in a tree with no leaves.

i can't
let my name change
i am not broken
NOT
scarred and
only temporary because
it's all done behind a curtain,
anyway.

i've left no spare rooms for unrecognized pain-
the echoes of vacancy are reflective of my woeful naivety.

as i drift further into galaxies in my dreams, i
will soften like damp Styrofoam
until i
sink.

Somewhere
in a dream
I gaze at sadness
      inside the folds
              of soft suede
     in hues of earth,
in its darkest shades
  and up surges longing,
breaking out
  breaking free
    a catharsis of emotions
rushing stormy
through me
Bursting in my veins,
now a river of tides
    from the swirl
               in my brain
      to the swell
of my thighs
and every inch
            of skin
aches with want
for a lost, ancient treasure
and I wonder
how ties
supposed to bind
were meant
     to be severed
for I am stuck
in this limbo
this dance
        between stars  
as the pain
in the staying
makes room
for new scars
and I'm thinking
that vows made
sometimes need
to be broken
before the soul
dies
in dark silence,
inner
   words
         never
   spoken

I have been told
Twice
By two different men- that I am the most defensive person they’ve ever met.
My skin too thick and my tongue to sharp
(I am supposed to be easy and soft.)
But those men didn’t tend to the garden of my mind or flesh.
They never sowed the seeds I have spent years tending
Or even tried to open the gate I have built with my calloused hands.

Do not judge this mind if you aren’t willing to ******* soul.
There are roses here that don’t need any other hands to prune.
And never forget-
I am of the moon and stars.
The rivers of this body don’t need your approval.
I was never meant to be the clay molded in your hands.