She writes sentiments
made to soften the hearts
of harden men and women.

In silent interludes
she scribbles
gentle syllables,

Rich whispers
fill my ears
hushing
the harsh pains
I feel
like torrential rains
on a raging forest fire.

I desire
to find
myself inspired
to write
something
as deep and beautiful.

I lust for larger words,
or perfected prose
to put something of me
and humanity
back into
the mind of strangers.

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.

Today I died on the freeway
by the overpass on the 427

a hot and relentless August rain
made it too dark to be five thirty

I walked home slowly from work
as you do when you're tired

oh yes, I was sad too
but we all are

it's easy to be sad
when it rains in August

when I reached the overpass
in the middle I leaned over

my hair passed my eyes
and droplets fell

down, down

I thought about it
twenty feet into traffic

the guardrail is never as useful
as a sweet and good-hearted hug

so then I thought better of it
and put my headphones in

I died on the freeway
then got up and kept walking.

A baby is born with a trouble or two,
what you feel in the womb really happens to you.
But matters are worse when you finally arrive,
baby, sweet baby, how will you survive?

At least on the inside you kept yourself warm,
but now on the outside you will feel the storm.
At least on the inside the drugs kept you high,
but now on the outside you've reason to cry.

A baby is born through no fault of his own,
decisions made for him from someone full grown.
Selfish and needy she thought not of him,
he arrives with no more then to sink or to swim.

And how do you swim when you can't even walk?
How do you ask when you can't even talk?
A baby is born and he suffers each day,
just so his mother could have her own way.

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

I’m in search of a come-home-to type love,
a partnership of life,
a hopes and dreams type love,
a forgiving and honest love.
One that bends and shapes itself
for the times.
One that laughs and cries
and worries and doubts
but does not waver,
a committed, steadfast,
and dedicated love.
One that builds a home
and encourages in times of apprehension,
supports in times of strength,
and comforts in times of hardship.
The love I search for is neither static
nor simple,
but instead is dynamic
and fluid,
a real, true,
and honest
type love.

One day, when I am very old, I hope to hand off my many poetry-filled notebooks to my grandchildren in hopes they are able to read and see and understand that, though life’s suffering often comes from within and at other times tragedy is to blame, there are enough good moments, blessings, and miracles between it all to live a full and long and good life.