You, my sweet boy, are yellow.
Not sick or jaundiced, but the hue of a cancary on an April afternoon.
The pastel tone painted on Easter eggs every year.
And the bright shade of the walls in the room where I met you.

I took the crown off my head
To make myself more approachable
To you
And in doing so
Forgot that I ever owned one

the feeling of being yeet
the feeling of eating a kabab
the feeling of the kabab being delicious
yeetkabalicious

Give Him your heart,
He can make it whole.
He can turn your broken heart
into a righteous soul.

Give Him your life,
He can give you more.
He will give you faith
in your time of war.

Give Him your face,
He will give you a glow.
It will glisten like the burning sun
or the purity of the shimmery snow.

Give Him your emotions,
He will wipe your tears.
He will overshadow all hurt
anything causing your fears.

Just give Him your all,
and let His presence in.
He will give you everything.
Just give it to Him.

He is the pen
that spilled inks
to my pages
and the words that
filled my poetries.

I’m addicted to the feel of cold metal sliding across bare flesh
Addicted to the instant
when nothing marks smooth skin
immediately before
red rivers rapidly rise
painting a once white canvas
with a flood of emotion,
tears on my cheeks,
sobs caught in my throat,
numbness replaced by pain & sadness.
Addicted to the imperfection
of red welts and dotted scabs that follow,
fingers drawn like magnets
to the texture of healing skin,
tracing over and over and over now fading ridges
Amazed that I am strong enough
to heal myself over and over and over.
Convincing myself that I am strong enough.
I find strength in my weakness.

Just a little poet
Who's always afraid to
Show it.

But then I met you.