He said,"I could never let you go."
She replied, "baby, you already left."

I thought poetry was a series of
notes and rhythms;
had to sing myself to sleep
with a voice too raspy from the tears.

I didn't know poetry was the coma
you wake up from
when you find the right words
to express your thoughts.

I didn't know it was
the lonely you feel
on the nights surrounded by humans
but no people.

So I waited and prayed for the words,
didn't let poetry bring me to my knees.
Praise God,
praise God we can express ourselves.

And I would've never believed
that poetry would make you
feel alive in the pain,
proud in the shame,
forever changed.

Back when I thought poetry rhymed.

Sometimes its the simplicity of my fathers ways that make me want to walk in his unchanging path for the rest of my days.
His engineer mind complicates my decisions
But my mothers healing hands touch everyone but me
However its my mothers rage and fire
That i sorely desire
Seeing my father think is like watching the inside of a clock,
Its gears switching and constantly turning.
My mothers fists of fury tell me i should be angry,
People lied and diseved.
My fathers ways are beautiful, however once i try to live then i realize that that is not me,
I should be myself.
All i want is to be free
He is stuck in a hallway that only goes straight.
My mother is in a feild of grass runninng away from everyone and everything.
I cant be stuck in my fathers wrath
I need my mothers outrageous anger to keep my going.
Simplicity is beauty.
But i need freedom.