do you know the weight of it?
clawing your way up
test after test,
year after year,
to be the perfect reflection of the dreams they have for you,
those that are now your own.
where your worth now hangs.

when they see the prize,
they say, 'oh it comes so easily to her'

Easily?

i bled for this.
i screamt for this.
and my mind?
it whispers
'this is just what you're supposed to do'
you are 'gifted'
its your mere responsibility.
nothing to celebrate. nothing special.

isnt it?

I cry remembering you, I smile remembering you,
Sometimes in my tears, sometimes in my laughter,
the echo of your presence still lives within me I cry for the moments I lost,
the ones that will forever live only in my memories I smile after losing you,
because even pain has now become a habit.

I refuse to bow to those words-
The ones that pierce my heart,
Tear at my soul,
Yet still claim to love.
What kind of love is that?
Is it pain,
Torment,
Or torture?

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where:
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

"Enjoy your own company"
Is easy advice
When it isn't the only option.

"Learn to love yourself"
Is a lot easier
When you aren't the only source.

We are social creatures
But maybe there's a reason
The most successful say they're lonely.
Maybe coming to believe
Evolution has finally grown beyond
The measly confines of needing others
Is our inevitable future.

Or maybe,
Now is just a season
To be in your own company
So the next will be so much more appreciated.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

She was like music,
and I longed to dance.

Her heart was the beat,
and I begged for the chance.

Her words were the vocals,
and I was put in a trance.

Her smile was the melody,
and I fell in love at first glance.

Why Don’t I Know What I Know Now, Then?

Why don’t I know what I know now then?
If I had known it, what would have changed?
What would have turned?

Would the wind have shifted,
or the earth beneath me cracked open sooner?
Would my steps have faltered,
or found firmer ground?

If I had known,
would I have walked straighter,
or would the knowing
have bent me differently?

Would I have spoken,
or swallowed the words all the same?
Would I have reached for the flame,
or let the fire fade?

But I did not know,
and so I moved as I did,
stood as I stood,
broke where I broke ..
and somehow, still,
I am here.

Now knowing.

Would it have mattered then?
Or only now,
when the knowing is too late to change,
but just in time to understand?