Like a travel guide embedded in your tissue,
your scars are roadmaps,
they tell me where you’ve been.
With caution, I run my fingers through the grooves,
and I feel every stone in your path
so I steer away from them
and all the places you wish to never return to.
Your memories are the passing landmarks,
and I see the sadness in every weakened construct.
I’ll never take you down those roads,
I’ll never pave my own.
I promise.

Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.

Cold,
I am as cold as the shoulder you've given me,
Small,
I'm nothing but a minnow compared to a whale,
Hurt,
My mind has been torturing itself for days,
Numb,
The pain is gone and all that's left is bitter tears,
Gone