If only I could forget
all the things that have hurt me
erase from my mind
the harsh words spoken —
the ones that made my heart bleed.

They linger on,
repeating in my mind,
hurting over and over again,
never letting peace settle in.

Nothing I do makes life easier
everything feels lost
In the darkness
light fades away.

A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

It came like weather.
No origin.
No request.

Just a shift in pressure
    inside the skin.
And something
  started speaking
    through my hands.

It wasn’t mine.
Not the phrase.
Not the image.
Not the ache it left.

But it needed a body
  to pass through.
And mine
  was open
    enough.

There are moments
when I read back what I wrote
  and feel
    like a stranger
    with my own voice.

Not confused.
Not proud.
Just…
  borrowed.

I don’t always know
 what I’m doing.
But sometimes,
 not knowing
  is what lets it happen.

Call it muse.
Call it current.
Call it memory
      from before this life.

I don’t need to name it.
Just not get in the way.

What do you mean—
when you say, you love?
What’s the true meaning of love?

If you ask me what I believe,
Here is what I’d say—

Love is,
The unspoken wonder in someone’s eyes.
Or a gentle smile that shyly lies.

Love is,
A fragrance that clings to someone’s nose,
Or the melody in a voice that softly flows.

Love is,
A springtime flutter in someone’s chest,
Or a cooling breeze that brings the heart to rest.

Love is,
A storm that brews inside the soul,
Or butterflies dancing with no control.

And tell me, dear—
To explain what love really is,
Aren’t these enough
and simply bliss?

What could be a truer definition than this?

The 'you' I dream of always sees me near,
But the real 'you' won’t even glance, I fear.

The 'you' I imagine longs to talk to me,
But the real 'you' speaks only out of need, casually.

The 'you' in my mind loves me true and deep,
But the real 'you' leaves wounds that silently seep.

In crowds, the 'you' I dream of seeks my face,
But the real 'you' ignores me,
even in an empty place.

Why this difference, so cold, so stark?
Between the dream and the truth,
Why such a dark—
distant mark?