Is it better to try something
And to risk any consequence?
Or worse not to try anything,
Risk being of no consequence?

Don't promise me forever,
Who knows what dawn will bring,
Just promise me this moment,
For unknown are the tales the future sings,

We will take the days as they come,
And forever may come true,
But days ahead are uncertain,
So I live in the moment next to you.

In Florida sometimes it rains so hard
that you believe that it can't possibly stop,
that it will just rain and rain forever.

Sometimes I'd wake to a storm late at night,
and I'd sit out on the porch.

You could smell the lightning, and the coolness of the storm would
make your hair stand;
I'd feel so alive.

Some nights I'd go out, and my father
would be sitting on the porch already.
Lost in the storm
or maybe
called to it.
We wouldn't talk,
but we'd be lost together
in the rain and thunder.

Sometimes I wonder what of him
is left in me.
I am not sure
if I am more afraid of there being
very little
or of there being a great deal,
but when it rains
I think about him on that porch;

You are not your pain.
You are not your pain.
You are not your pain.

You are not what happened to you.
You are not what happened to you.
You are not what happened to you.

You are not what they did to you.
You are not what they did to you.
*You are not what they did to you.

Our bodies are poetry
from soft to smooth to hard
our bodies are poetry
freckled, shaped and scarred

Our mouths are dancers
unchoreographed, with memory
our fingers are virgins
gentle and trembling

Our eyes, are passerbys
our noses, cuddling cubs
our arms, reconnecting friends
our knees buckle with every touch

Our bodies are poetry
fitting into every groove
our bodies are poetry
from hard to soft to smooth

Sure I breath
I do have a pulse
I still excist
But I am not living
I am just waiting for death to end this
I am already dying inside
But my existence is never fading
I am still here
Breathing they same air as you

Word for word.
A poem devolopes
Death, death, death.
An ongoing story of sadness.
Pain, pain, pain.
Hopelessness.
Each word rhymes with suicide.
Word for word.
A testament of my pain.
Every word another story.
Word for word.
A story is created.
Every word holds emotions.
And lost hopes.

But writing them down saves me,
from ending my own.
So bare with me as I write.
Because as long as I keep writing,
the story continues.