But the words still come
Old and rusted
New and glinting
Weapons in an endless battle with myself
When will I run out of words to write

My mom doesn't always get it
Sometime's I feel like she only sees and hears what she wants
But she's always been there
She's voiced her concern with an endless supply of "You're my son and I love you"
I'm left speechless.
I don't know exactly how someone decides to become a parent let alone become one twice but the second time was me and I'm grateful.
Without this life I live I wouldn't know the joys of having a mother.
Especially mine.
Lived in the same house for over 20 years but made it feel different from the walls to the atmosphere
isn't a chef but puts a homecooked meal on the table almost every day of the week
Sometimes falls apart but never fails to bring the family together "How about a boardgame."
I always thought the term, "find someone to love that reminds you of your mother" a bit weird
But I get it now, because it would be an honor to any human being to be compared to my mother.

I can't sleep
You're still there
I can't close my eyes
I wish I could
I could dream without you
I'm so ******* tired
Please let me sleep

Nothing is permanent
Except for pens
Ink stains everything
Graphite fades
Erasers take away marks that were meant to last forever
I'd rather stain my soul with something that will last

Hello
Goodbi
No, not incorrect spelling
I am a good bi
But what does that mean?
From the age of 8 all I ever heard about was mothers and fathers
That one day I'd find a wife and be a husband
But but​ 10 I had, feelings.
The first time I tried to open up about them I was explained that opposites attract so I must be wrong.
Two men couldn't possibly be right.
So I brand myself straight, after fixing the curve to fit in
By 12 I had learned a new word.
Bisexual.
But what is it?
Who is it?
Knock knock
Who's there?
It's me
Hello
Goodbi
Yes, I am a good bi
I indulged this new finding and what I found was myself
Among something I could call myself besides confused.
So here I am.
Spry, bi, and ready to try
Try to be the best bi I can be
By being myself.

My poems of love are usually sad.
Let's see how this one goes.
Love is love, it's a simple sentence.
Three words.
But for the world it's a difficult thing to comprehend.
I've been fortunate enough to have a family that understands but somewhere else in the world there's a place where no one does.
People are being rounded up, and killed like roaches in an infestation.
Shoved off roofs, shot in the streets and for what.
For loving just a little different.
For living as themselves.
My heart is heavy.
My mind unsteady.
Thinking of how my family would act if one day I came home for christmas with another man on my arm.
He'd be welcomed and greeted with the kindest of hearts.
Because here love is love.
And I wish the world could love like this.

This haunting refrain that leaves my mouth
It's your's you know
I've sung it for you a thousand times
The only difference is now it's lost it's soul
The heart behind it, broken in two
Some notes are now soured by sadness
And yet I sing on
I sing in hope for a day I can change back into a major key
An uplifting sound could hit my ears again
If only I knew how to right now