They tell me to believe in it,
Says it feels like magic
But all I’ve seen is tragic
Because momma always blames her addiction
On what was supposed  to be the love of her life
My father.
A man who took her youth, along with dignity, confidence
And a heart she never had much use for after he took off.
Because of love she never notice me,
Because of love our family is a tragedy.
Maya Angelou went in and out of time
While old folks laughed at the stupidity,
The old adage or illusion we dragged our behinds into.
Something that is there but never existed.
Saint Valentine, sorry to disappoint
But your blood,
Your blood was spilled in vain.
Love is red like the February  14th,
And also like gunshot  wounds of soldiers
And cardiac ones of their wives back home.
So what is love?
Ladies and gentlemen love is nothing
But pain with no gain
A sunflower fruitlessly blossoming in the rain.

Kaleidoscopic intoxication
Planetarial mental immigration
Observation of the general population
The "civilization" hallucination
Control of all the corporations
Propaganda propagation
Colouration discrimination..
Humanitarian emancipation

The sky is falling...

One.
When my mom found us asleep in my bed at 4am and screamed at you to 'Get the **** OUT of her house,' you texted me the very next morning and asked to see me as though it never even happened.

Two.
When my family went out of town without me for Thanksgiving, we stayed the whole day at your place and watched foreign movies and ate pasta.

Three.
On our first date, we sat in your car until 3am just... talking.

Four.
When my sister really wanted that new Pokemon game and my local Walmart sold out, you voluntarily drove almost 5 towns over just so she could get it because you knew I couldn't for her.

Five.
The first time we had ***, I cried. I still don't know why. You held me the whole time.

Six.
You woke me up with tickets to one of my favorite musicians of all time, for a tour I didn't even know about.

Seven.
When my dogs died, you stayed up with my the whole night as I cried. Both times.

Eight.
The first time you kissed me was at a gas pump at 10pm after I changed out of my blouse and into my hoodie.

Nine.
You took me to Buffalo Wild Wings even though you're a vegetarian. You even put up with my singing each 2008 Billboard Top 100 song as it played. I could tell you were embarrassed for me, but you laughed and kissed me anyway.

Ten.
When I told you I hadn't been to the art museum, you took me. When I told you I'd never been to Chipotle, you took me. When I told you I hadn't felt safe in years, you made me feel the safest I ever have.

Eleven.
After you kissed me the first time, you admitted the thing that "made" you kiss me was my purple-stained lips after I ate Superman ice cream while belting out songs terribly and sitting in the passenger seat of your car.

Twelve.
When I told you that you were a terrible tipper and I was a waitress, you immediately stopped tipping terribly.

Thirteen.
You left me a voicemail telling me you appreciated me, that you felt lucky to have me, and you claimed you didn't deserve me. While I disagree, I felt it. That was the first time I heard you say "I love you" before you had actually said the words "I love you."

Four walls.
No door.
A roof.
A floor.
Trapped inside.
It shrinks in size.
Smaller now.
There’s no way out.
I cannot think.
I cannot breath.
Dark and cold.
All alone.

Color me happy
Color me wise
Color in colors
Only seen through your eyes

Color in scribbles
Color outside the lines
Color a picture
That is quite unlike mine

821

Away from Home are some and I—
An Emigrant to be
In a Metropolis of Homes
Is easy, possibly—

The Habit of a Foreign Sky
We—difficult—acquire
As Children, who remain in Face
The more their Feet retire.