tell me, what's the key to your thoughts
do you have them locked in your locs –

chasing after a touch of those tangled thoughts
running fingers through your hair, but your
dreads are too thick - still that's alright

                      at least I have you tonight.

tell me about a passionate spirit - I decide when not to die,
especially when dealing with suicide. waste myself, hate myself —
feeling like all the worst things. lose my thoughts, I cannot find
my mind; found a cause, held onto that knife

right now, I cannot breathe, yet still… I'll choose to live —
no more suicides.

the sweet scent of flowers
grazes the finely thinned hairs of a lover
while a butterfly flits in their stomach ready
to tie that uncomfortable knot…

                               she has fallen in love.

we are speech and breath
the days are red; painted blushes in the sky
would the Heavens tell us stories of true love –
a message well read?

in the silence of my room… I
dance the loudest,
pray the longest
cry the ugliest,
laugh the modest,
dream the youngest,
stare at empty walls for promise,
break down the strongest,
overthink within a guilty conscience,
play out my scenarios worthy of their flowers
planting fields of doubt for all my anxieties
to have a fruitful harvest

in the silence of my room… I
am truly at my honest.

while pieces of the rain remains
lost on the leaves – my tears hit the ground
slowly after they have painted my face

still more fragile;
thirsty for water as I keep my eyes open

searching for a picture of you, but the cloud's
tears mix with my own, blurring up my glasses

the sun had peeled away itself
blinded by a shade of heavy clouds – heavy emotions
as emotional as I get when I know you’re so far

it's raining and I need you

the dew of my tears feels wet on tight sleeves
the sweat from my brow jumps like water in springtime
and if I could use words to describe my heart – it would
only seal away my lips

my tears are like scattering flowers
blown away by the winds – my lungs are a leafless branch
veiled in such a dry cough; choking away at my pride

nights I’ve dreamt of suicide, to live on
and tell of it lies; it was an empty void that wouldn’t fill
the belly of some hungry wild dog – and if I could speak
a fruitful prophecy for my life, my lips would be the scent of plums.