I write
to hide my tears
to pour them
with ink
like life

I write
because i am
sad
because i need
to make
you
happy

I write
because i feel
there is nothing else
i can do
in this world
but try to share
every peice of
grief
i feel
to make you
understand


i write

What is a poem if not my thoughts?
Scattered through sentences and stuttered aloud
What is a poem if not of emotions?
Get down on our knees
Hell will rise up to me
What is a poem if not of those questions?
Does he love me, does he love me,
Does he love me not?
What is a poem if not writers block?
Wasting my paper and ink just to mock
Stanzas and stanzas,
Where will they lead?
What is a poem if not an idea?
This is a story, a prohecy,
Take heed.

And I think the easiest way to explain it was that I was drowning
Drowning in the waves of my own anxiety, my fear of my disarming disabilities
Gasping for air with my face raised to the sky, arms reaching up with hope as soft as a sigh
Flailing legs that turn left and right, eyes open wide with death in sight
Mind gone limp, my body surrenders, but
My lungs accompany my soul in screaming
It’s a mournful cacophony, a silent screech,
Something so harsh it leaves a gaping hole, broke a five by five wall into crumbling pieces,
Shot a blazing bullet,
Until the surface could nolonger be seen.

We are not Angels

We are just Demons

                                           Learning to Fly