Let us leave
Our hearts behind,
Forget the days
And the sky - spread wide,
Let us rejoice
Among the stars,
Crowding the moon,
Chasing the sun - tonight,
Let us be
But just bones - tonight,
Armour - where our souls reside,
Let us be
But just a dance,
Eternal - tonight.

I tell my friends I didn't study
Because I knew I wouldn't get in either way
I lied to them
I studied like never before
Flashcards
Notebooks filled with practice questions
Yet
I didn't make the cut
I wasn't good enough

I do not fear the decay of beauty.
But I am repulsed by the maggots feasting on its remains.

People ask me
Why I don't believe them
Why I can't trust that they won't lie

The reality is
I used to believe it all
That he would change
And that he won't the battle
With his drugs
And his anger
But then I saw it
I felt it
And that's why I cry

This is why
I refuse to hope
And I can't believe

I want to
I really do
I promise
I try

I wish I could find
the first poem I wrote...

[was it on paper
or deeper, on my heart;
unblemished hope?]

Were my poems
ever melodies?
Or were they just
internal remedies
to the thick,
sick, and cut off
parts in me?

Did I write limericks,
raps, or pick-up tricks?
Were they from my inner voice
or head, just strong?

Did I ever give them air
to breathe,
like a love song?

Is this why
I am now so prolific;
I would prize that poem long,
put it in a vault to deny
constant criticism from the system...

but then let its spirit float free for all eternity.