I want to be enough
To be bright enough
To burn hot enough

To make only acceptable errors
Nothing more

Would I be enough
Were my wit sharper
And my thoughts less scattered

Would I feel your smile upon me then?

You are still so deeply engraved in my heart
Daggers on every page of this story
I offer flowers of reconciliation
Because that’s what fools do

I think a part of you felt
That if you kept hurling stones
Eventually I’d use them to build a wall
And shut you out…

I have never stopped writing for you
It has just become sadder over time
Lingering on your every word
Hanging myself on each labored breath
Look at what you’ve done
My captive heart still belongs to you

In my heart lie splinters
Often going unnoticed
For the greater pain of you

Each one composed
Of the things which redirect to you

A string of unrelated words
No connected thread
Save for you

My heart has become timid
So quiet,
You might mistake its hush for a silent pool
Whose water lies still
And depth deceives those who stare too long
Into believing it shallow
Shunning the height of emotion
Lest it drown in the undertow
I struggle to stay afloat,
Forgive me

Some day we’ll all be a little older
A little more weathered and restored
We’ll wake up and all this poetry will finally make sense.
Like a locked drawer underneath our ribs,
Fortuitously pried open by storm.

Each person I have ever met
Has added to the tapestry of my soul
Some adding a single string
To the complexity of the whole

Sometimes strings lie in disarray
Their edges frayed at threads end,
The ghosts of my memories left behind
Woven into the fabric of my being  

To move forward
I face the torn edges of the past
And make peace with the imperfections
Added from each thread,
By integrating them into myself

I think the most insidious thing you could do
Is stab someone close to you
Then tell them their pain and anguish
Is the reason you weep

Like Icarus
Too close
Too much

I’ve been told each bad poem
Lays the foundation for the next
Each satisfactory one
Tracing its genealogy
Through myriad failures

I am well practiced in the art of heartache
Fluent in the language of grief
Versed in the routine of melancholy

I walk through this life marred by loss

Each day representing my triumphant victory over every obstacle existence has thrown at me

Even apart,
I have not felt disconnected from you

My single greatest fear,

Is that this has all been a series of mistakes,

I will never be able to unmake.

For every great artist with a closet full of bad paintings,

There is one with only skeletons.

You have been a teacher
Of passion and guilt
Quiet Rebellion
That resounds now still
And I,
Disobedient,
Followed and learned,
From you,
And of you

I bring you the burden of my longing
I am the wanderer without drink
And you are the pool of water
In my desert of desire.

I bring you the burden of my love
It has waited for so long-
(And there is no crucifixion like waiting)
It shall cover you-
It shall be the girdle of flame around you
It shall be the pyre
Whereon we shall perish

Is sadness just another precious thing you have given to me?

I don’t write for you
I don’t even write for me
It’s to make sense of the chaos
To greet each terror by name

I want to paint a neat narrative
Give it substance and form
Curse it with the burden of a name
Maybe then, it will make sense

It’s easy to convey pain
Difficult to transform it into art—

Here is how I hold the pen
Here is how the pen holds me
Here are my thoughts,
Over-steeped in empty fervor  
Here is everything and nothing

“Some day I will write poems about this but first I must survive it.”

Give yourself permission to survive.

This is how art is made.

In the same way Van Gogh painted his Starry Night from the window of an asylum—

It was the safety of the cell,
And not his insanity,
That lifted the brush.

Never apologize for your art.

Frustrated
Confused
Everything comes to an end?
Too quick
Not enough time

I’ve often been told I’m too uptight

Little do they know,

Each day I make a cup of coffee

A display of quiet anarchy,

For it too is an act of entropy

I assumed there is poetry
In death and the wilting of flowers
In the setting of the sun
In a life with or without words to describe

I assume there is art
Not just in the portraits we burn
But in the dark and hollow nights
Determined to find beauty in the black and grey and white.

I assume there too is music
In the pouring of clouds
In footsteps
In the abandoned and lost

Once upon a time
I made myself small
So they could feel big
Told them they deserved
To take up more space
Mistakes were made
Hearts were broken
And being so small,
I was crushed underfoot

How do you expect me to stand on my feet when you keep striking at my ankles?

Who am I in other peoples stories?
Am I the ripped out page?
The crumpled drawing?
Thrown away after it didn’t turn out right.

To me, I keep the melancholy chapters
And leaf through the bittersweet and loss
Looking for the substance or lesson
Hidden between the rot and the rust.

A sad ending doesn’t make it unworthy of reading.