I never begged for anyone to stay—
not once, not in silence, not in stray
glances that lingered longer than pride
would ever let me justify.

But that night,
the stars felt too loud
and the world too hollow.

Every inch of me—
bone, breath, memory—
itched like a wound that knew
its healer was walking away.
Even the atoms trembled,
each particle aching
to betray my mouth
and scream
“Please…”

When I reach out,
You grab my hand.
When I reach out,
You listen to my words.
When I reach out,
You're there.

Some things are better off dead
Buried in the ground
The memories stuck in my head
Spiraling around and around

My soul sits in its tomb
My hopes are the coffin it lies in
My inner child is the surrounding gloom
My dreams are the flowers lying on the stone

My trauma make up the walls that surround
My pain is the drawings underground
My soul was buried with the shackles that bind me
I had to bury it all so it would let me breathe

You have to stop looking behind to look ahead
That’s why some things are better off dead

I find myself here
Under the sycamore rain,
Again, loving you.

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.

Empty
except for a small seed
a possession so precious
never to be released
hugging, embracing
all day,  soon all the nights

A treasure of words
never will I let go
a piece of paper that caresses my heart
thoughts, steal my breath
If only I could trade tears for
a rose garden
until.....
these words are chains around my heart
in a golden palace
where I dream in black and white

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M