Please do not let society deceive you.
Father’s Day is not just for
The strong, the brave,
And the handsome fathers.
It’s not just for the grill masters, the family men,
And the ones who have mastered a car’s engine.
Father’s Day is also for the single dads,
Struggling to make ends meet,
Who find themselves crying at 3 am because
They don’t think they’re good enough.
Father’s Day is for the dads who are
Away from their children, fighting tooth and nail
For their country, not knowing whether
They will ever return home.
Father’s Day is for the stay-at-home dads,
Who don’t help support the family financially,
But enjoy all the small moments of
Their childrens’ upbringing.
Father’s Day is not just for
The strong, the brave,
And the handsome fathers.
Father’s Day is for all dads and father figures.
Please do not let society deceive you.

When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so ******* the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.

Oh, the million
Fireworks that explode in
My heart when we kiss.

“Floor me with flawed beauty,” the
Poetry professor said.  “Give me a
Reason to read your poem, a deep
Craving to know the workings of
Your mind.
“Let me know the things you
Hate, the things you
Love, the things you couldn’t care
Less about.
Make me care.
“I see beauty in you, not
Perfect or pristine, but
Flawed,
Ugly, not-fit-for-the-
Human-eye-beauty.
“I’ve been teaching for 20 years; write me
Something I don’t already know.
“Floor me with
Your
Flawed beauty.”

The free box lies in the
Corner of the garage,
Where the crickets and the
Spiders and the raccoons live,
And the doll is slouched in the corner,
With more dirt on her than the garage floor.
Her hair is without color,
Her eyes without life,
As she stares up at the innocent
Garage salers who rarely give her a
Second glance.
She’s in the free box;
Why would anyone bother?
She’s been abused and neglected,
Despised and rejected,
And she’s finally done with it all.
She’s in the free box;
Why would anyone bother?

At the end, my hand
Nor my fingers trembled as
I grasped her pale neck.

Chest heaving, eyes weeping,
The tomb blurs before my eyes.
How is everyone else still sleeping
When my Savior doesn’t arise?

Oh, how the doubt roars within me,
His words now seem to me as His rotting flesh,
“I will rise on day three,”
But his body is now stolen, unless…

Dirt clenching onto my dress,
I fling the tears from my eyes,
Trying to decide if… Yes!
There are people by his graveside.

Angels they must be, all in white,
And before I can confirm their existence, they speak:
“Woman, why are you weeping at this sight?”
My anger flares as I try to control my speech.

“Because my Lord has been taken away,
And I don’t know where his body is.”
I attempt to keep my temper at bay,
Turning away to abate my boiling fears.

Then I see the gardener, and a flash of brilliance
Or desperation rises in me, which one I don’t know,
But as I open my mouth to ask about my Lord’s disappearance,
He speaks: “Why are you weeping woman, why such sorrow?”

Again the same question, yet I cannot form
An adequate response; how can one describe
The loss of Him who can calm the storm,
But now has left my world in turmoil at his sacrifice?

My anger reaches the heavens now,
And in irritation I retort, “If you have taken Him away,
Tell me where He is, and I will take him from thou.”
Chest heaving, eyes weeping, I glance away.

But then I hear my name, soft and sweet but firm,
Two syllables, a clear “Mary!”
And I turn
And my unbridled joy at seeing him turns into “Rabboni!”

I ponder for a second what it’s like to feel
Sadness, for in that split second, it’s gone,
It’s been replaced by rejoicing and zeal,
And I resist the urge to leap with the dawn.

How could I have ever doubted?
Of course His words are true,
It’s a reality that must be shouted,
Yet all I can do is stare at him now that he’s in my view.

“Do not cling to me,” he says earnestly
“For I still must ascend to my Father,
And please tell our friends this, for certainly
I ascend to My God and your God, My Father and your Father.”

It was good he said this, for I had forgotten
In my excitement to see my Savior; I’m sure
His disciples must have wondered whether their Lord had rotted:
“I’m leaving right now, my Savior!”

Sandals rubbing into callouses, lungs heaving,
I ran back to town, through the streets that
Once knew me in despair, grieving,
Hardly stopping, for I had no time to chat.

My Savior has risen, he is alive and well,
He has saved us lost sheep who have gone astray,
And although He no longer on Earth will dwell,
He will never allow us to fully decay.

I’m sure when you die he will call your name too,
With a voice soft and sweet but firm and so true,
And you will go be with Him and He’ll make you brand-new,
And we’ll all live forever from our own Easter morning, too.

Silent and so calm
Heads peeking through leaves and trees
Bright eyes stare, yearning

The rain smashes against the glass,
Shaking and torturing the transparency,
Craving what lies behind the barrier.
The wind batters continuously,
Threatening to shatter the crystal.
Though its appearance is negligible,
It’s holding back such terrible things,
Staying strong against the great forces of nature.
The glass often goes unnoticed,
Its purpose overlooked and
Taken for granted.
Who knew glass is only noticed
When it’s broken?

God, grant her strength to
Get through the day,
To simply keep breathing and
Not let anxiety and fear get the best of her.
You know what is best;
Please keep her safe in
Her hours of trial.
God, grant her courage.

Your stomach coils and knots,
Your hands wringing in your lap.
Will they have missed you as much as you missed them?
Will they remember the fun times you had together?
Your palms start to visibly sweat,
Your entire body heat rising.
Will they actually be back?
Will they have changed?
Your heart pounds,
Your breathing quickens
As the hands of the clock tick,
And you wonder whether they will be
Gone forever.

In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.

Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and I
Have a problem with that.
I have a problem with the fact that toddlers can put
Green crayons in the freezer and tell their parents that they are
Preserving
The Earth and that they’ve been learning about
Animal adaptations and conjunctions in school
And that they
Love
Their friends.
I have a problem with the fact that a
Toddler’s idea of
Beauty
Is a butterfly landing on their finger during
Recess, a snowflake on their tongue, the
Grogginess of  staying up past 8:30,
****** snacks, Dora the Explorer,
The satisfaction of scraping the
First chunk out of a tub of butter, the
Giddiness and fear at your first sleepover,
The one where you had to timidly shake your
Friend awake in the middle of the night because you could
Not for the
Life of you find the bathroom.
I’m not ashamed to admit that
I haven’t said I love you in a time that
Lingers like the smell of burning.
It’s always love you or love ya and I’ve
Forgotten what it feels like for those words to
Caress my lips, to guide my heart
Out of its cage into the
Stale air.
I want to be considering beauty like a
Toddler.  I want to be watching Dora and
Learning about conjunctions, but instead I’m
Crying because I can’t fit into my jeans right and I
Don’t know how to do makeup.  I want to say
I love you and let it
Ring in the air like
Frozen music
But I can’t
Because you’re
States away and instead I brush my hair
So many times for people who don’t even like me that
There’s no personality left.
I have a problem with the fact that you
Moved on so quickly and left me with the
Loves me not flower petal and that
Dora the Explorer is not on Netflix
Anymore and the price of Happy Meals goes
Up everyday like the age of my
Heart  
And that
Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and say that
They
Are preserving the Earth.

The sensation of
Your hand in mine makes me feel
Like it is all right.

Life is like tubing.
If you don't make an effort to hold on,
To stay on track,
You won't.
If the person closest to you shoves you,
You might slide off,
Or you could simply hang on and try harder.
If the people with you help you and
Tell you where to hold on and when to lean,
You might make it.
But even if you fall off, the driver of the boat of your life,
God, will always come around and pick you up,
Make sure you're okay,
And send you on your way again.
Life is like tubing.
Hang on and
Never lose faith in your driver.

Happiness is
Sunlight shining in on an unmade bed,
The smell of pancakes wafting through
The house, the sound of the morning
Program being emitted from the vintage radio.
Happiness is
Sneaking out at night,
Feeling the warmth of a midnight breeze
And the alluring freedom it brings on its wing.
Happiness is
Cuddling up with your favorite pet,
Thunder crashing and lightning flashing outside,
Hearing the torrents of rain against the window,
Eccentric yet familiar at the same time.
Happiness is
Ending the day with a home-cooked meal,
When the comforting fragrance hits you
Before you open the door,
And you can still smell it as you fall
Into a deep sleep.
Happiness is
Sharing earbuds with the
Love of your life, connected not only through
Words, notes, and rhythms, but
Knowing you have a deeper connection
Of body, heart, and soul.
Yet happiness is also
The triumph of surviving another night
In the hospital,
The relief after hearing long awaited
Good news,
The contentment of the sun finally rising
On another day.
When the night seems long,
Finding happiness in the little things
Encourages the sun to rise.
Because it will.
It will.

He didn’t grow up in a good home.
He didn’t have a supportive mother.
He didn’t have a father worth speaking of.
He didn’t know how to read or write.
He didn’t know that 2+2=4.
He didn’t have any friends.
He didn’t know that such wonderful things existed.
He didn’t play or run outside.
He didn’t have the permission to.
He didn’t graduate high school.
But he didn’t drop out.
That night, he didn’t stop drinking.
That night, he didn’t use his head.
That night, he didn’t care.
That night, he didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t see the car coming.
He didn’t hear the crunch of the metal.
He didn’t hear the screech of the tires.
He didn’t wake up.

Hello, my name is Invisible,
Unseen,
Camouflaged,
Disguised
So well that nobody can see me,
And so completely that
Nobody cares to look.

The lavender lilacs line the path that my bare feet tread,
The grass tickling my toes.
Bees buzz among the sunflowers that hang over my head,
They flit around the primrose.
The sun’s rays warm my skin,
And I breathe in the glorious spring air,
Not thinking about where I’ve been.
Just where I am.
At the end of the path is the old wooden swing,
Where she and I would swing for hours,
Each other’s hands we would cling,
While she told me all the different kinds of flowers.
She showed me the hollyhocks and bluebells,
Daisies and buttercups,
And all of the lesser known flowers I have
Long since forgotten.
She laughed when I couldn’t remember
The name of the tulip,
And her soft lips brushed my cheek.
I sit down on the swing and listen to it
Creak as I push off from the ground,
And the memories come rushing back
That are associated with that sound.
Every afternoon spent here,
Every flower name,
I wish I could remember every one,
In my mind they be engraved.
I close my eyes and picture her,
Her circular glasses, golden brown hair falling,
A pencil tucked behind her ear.
The mole on her left cheek.
Even though she’s long gone,
And our kids are all grown up,
She will never be forgotten.
She lives on in her garden.

He was in love with her,
The kind of love that kept him up at night,
On the kind of nights that dragged on and on without respite.
He would fall asleep thinking of her,
Dream of her all night long,
And wake up with her name on his lips.
He turned a thousand shades of red whenever
He talked to her, and her gorgeous green eyes
Peeking out from behind her dark bangs made
Butterflies soar in his stomach.
But she was not in love with him,
And messed with his mind for fun.
She was with a different guy every night, and
He never knew that her true intentions
Were anything but true.
He reached for her, but his hand
Was only met by a shadow.

The things he said hurt her terribly,
His words cut like knives,
But she wasn't allowed to scream
Because then people would see what was happening,
And they would know how terrible he was.  
No punches were thrown, no slaps were
Necessary to bruise her heart.  
Now with every beat her heart grows weaker.  
Her mind weakens with it thinking,
“What if he says it again, what if he hurts me again?  
What if it turns physical?”
She doesn't trust him, doesn't love him
The same way she used to.  
Her heart is damaged, and his words now have
Done too much damage for him to fix it.  
So she must find another, one who has
The capability of fixing her heart without hurting it more, someone with the true skills of a surgeon.  
She finds him, and grows to love him,
This one who has mended and enhanced her heart
In ways she cannot explain, but
She is not destined to be with him,
As her lover drags her back to the
Dark recesses of her mind where
She grows to hate herself because of his hurtful words.  
She prays that one day that
She will have the courage to break out of the cycle
And keep her heart intact and whole;
The way it was supposed to be.

Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.

Do I love you too much?
Am I supposed to feel this much?
Because every time I think your happiness might be
In the slightest way impeded or stopped,
My heart lies smitten, its beats off and tormented,
The muscle itself not knowing whether
It has enough strength to continue with
The next beat.  What is there to live for
If you are not happy?  
If tears fall down your face, who am I to smile?
If your mind is tormented by nightmares,
Who am I to lose myself in daydreams?
If you’re anxious about the world,
Who am I to enter it with confidence?
Because I truly love you, I have no choice
But to put your happiness over my own.
It feels as natural as that favorite shirt,
The perfect opening to a novel,
Sunlight streaming through the window on an unmade bed.  It feels so perfect, so right, that I can’t help
But shed tears when you do,
Experience terror during your nightmares,
To wallow in your uncertainty.  
Do I love you too much?  
Am I supposed to feel this much?  
Because I do.

I (don’t) miss you.
I miss your cute good morning texts,
Holding your hand in the hallway,
Sneaking kisses between classes.
But I don’t miss you.
I (don’t) need you.
I need your comfort after a nightmare,
Your strong arms when I’m upset,
Your loving words whispered in my ear.
But I don’t need you.
I (don’t) want you.
I want your cheeky smile,
Your gorgeous body,
Your easy laugh.
But I don’t want you.
I want your love and affections,
I want someone to deeply care about me,
But I don’t love you.
I (don’t) love you.

Are you staying,
Or are you going?
And if you’re going,
How do I make you stay?
Would it make a difference if
I told you how I felt about you,
Told you that I’ve loved you
From the moment I met you?
If I told you how much
I miss you when you’re gone,
How you’re the last thing
On my mind at night,
And the first thing I think of when I wake?
If I told you how when I see you in a dream,
And begin to tell you how much
I care about you, the dream fades,
And I’m left with tear stains on my pillow?
Because if you stay,
I will love you with everything I have,
If you stay,
I will always be there for you,
If you stay,
I will have everything my heart has ever wanted,
But all of this will only happen,
If you stay.

Illness
   And tragedy
      Have no words, and
         In love
            A sufferer
               R
                  u
                     n
                        s  dry.
                          Yet to others,
                   His pain,
          So crushing,
Is laughable.

“I love you, but your laugh is so weird!”
“I love you, but you shouldn’t have
Failed that test.”
“I love you, but you shouldn’t go out in
That ugly dress.”
“I love you, but why is your car so *****?”
“I love you, but please at least try not to snore?”
“I love you, but keep your distance, okay?”
“I love you, but stop getting so
Worked up about things!”
“I love you, but your anxiety is hurting me.”
“I love you, but I don’t think this is
Going to work out.”
This is all my ears hear, but
My heart doesn’t hear it, comprehend it.
I just want you to know,
“I love you, but I’m not sure if I should.”

Yes, maybe sometimes I speak in clichés,
Or maybe metaphors some of my days.
Maybe you don't understand my rhymes,
Or can't keep up with the dictionary's changing times.
Even if you don't understand this art,
Know that I'm a poet who speaks from the heart.

I'm human.
I'm extremely selfish, saying things I don't really mean,
And not saying the things that I mean.
I'm not observant, and I don't know how
To make people happy, how to fit into society,
And how to show my love to those I care about most.
I'm often grumpy, out of sorts, and sad,
Not finding happiness in things everyone else finds happiness in.
What can I say?
I'm human.
I can say what I want to through writing,
And use my written words to express myself.
I have enormous love and compassion,
And finding ways to show it will be a learning experience
I can have throughout my life.
Even though I can be sad, I also have a
Tremendous ability to be happy, joyful, and
To do things that fulfill that happiness.
What can I say?
I'm a beautiful human.

I'm more than my perfectly curled hair,
My flawless skin, my beautiful nails and
Model-perfect outfits.
I'm more than my big chest, my skinny waistline,
My perfectly toned legs and my adorable feet.
I'm more than someone's pet, a pawn in someone's
Twisted game of chess,
A prize to be won, or a piece of garbage to be disposed of.
I'm more than my body, does anyone realize that?
That I'm smart and kind and funny and independent,
And that I have more talents than simply putting on makeup?
Is society that messed up to think that
You must either be smart or beautiful, kind or pretty?
I'm asking you, pleading you, to think of me as
More than something to stare at.
Because I know
I'm more.

I’m sorry I can’t sleep,
That I spend my nights in constant agony,
Closing my eyes and trying to stay calm
But never finding rest within my mind.
I’m sorry I always have a headache,
That I have a constant pain behind
My eyelids, a torture that plagues my temples
And unmercifully spirals around my head.
I’m sorry I have to fake my way through
Every day, smiling and laughing while
The constant fatigue drains at my soul,
Tempting me to snap at everyone.
I’m sorry I frequently wake up in tears,
Fully convinced that the terrors of the night
Are real and tangible, and even though they aren’t,
I know they’ll come back night after night.
I’m sorry I’m too scared to tell anyone
What I’m going through, too worried
That they will think I’m weak, or stupid,
Or that I’m lying to gain attention.
I’m sorry I apologize for everything,
That I am paranoid, worried sick about
All the wrong I’ve done, and all the
Wrong my mind leads me to believe I’ve done.
I’m sorry.

In my dream,
I walk alone, and it’s
Cold,
Windy,
Harsh.
No voices but the wind’s.
The wind begs me to sit,
And I find a tree and sit
On its roots.
A bat flies out of the tree,
A black shadow against an even
Blacker sky,
A dark heart in a dark soul.
The last leaf in the forest stirs,
And then Winter arrives,
Cold,
Windy,
Harsh.
I try to hold our memory in my head,
Of when this forest was green,
And we were new and fresh,
Warm,
Still,
Kind.
In my dream, you appear
And I meet your eye.
But your memory is absent
Quicker than it came,
And I am left alone,
Cold,
Windy,
Harsh.

Every fiber of my body
Trembles with every breath,
Threatening to slip into sleep
With every blink.
The fatigue fills my body like
Air fills a balloon
And I think I’m about to pop.
Every little thing sends bolts
Of pain through my body,
Yet my brain doesn’t fully
Comprehend it, my mind a
Foggy haze that simply wants
To stop.
It wants everything to stop.
The thinking, the pain, the exhaustion.
Another night,
Another day,
Another night,
Another day,
A never-ending cycle of
Never being fully awake or fully asleep.
Insomnia.

In the sand,
We met each other,
And names exchanged between friends
Turned into faces with personalities,
Characteristics, and ambitions.
In the sand,
We played together,
Building homes out of sand,
Pouring our heart and soul
Into the project,
And each other.
In the sand,
We walked together,
Side by side, hand in hand.
Bright sunsets become a backdrop to
Meaningful talks, important words,
And shared smiles.
In the sand,
We partied together,
The firepit blazing under the stars,
Music blaring and friends dancing,
Their forms basking in the fire’s glow.
In the sand,
We argued,
And harsh words were hurled,
Not unlike the terrible stinging sensation
Sand creates when trapped in your eye.
In the sand,
We parted ways,
Under the same sunset backdrop,
And I watched your footprints
Fade away.
In the sand,
I lay there lonely,
Babies crying and mothers yelling
All around me, with me trying to
Fathom the reasons why you left me.
In the sand,
Like a loyal leatherback sea turtle,
We came back to our beach, and
With tears in your eyes and
Sand in your hair, you apologized.
In the sand,
You apologized for your selfishness,
The way you jumped to conclusions,
And you confessed that you had never,
Ever forgotten me and our beach.
A year later, in the sand,
You went down on one knee,
And after saying yes, I thanked God above
That I had fallen in love with you
In the sand.

Why do I feel so alone?
Why do I feel like no one understands me?
Why do I feel like no one knows I’m here?
Like I could just disappear and no one would know?
I feel changed, yet
No one notices.
I feel different, yet
No one cares.
I feel numb, yet
No one perceives it.
I open up, but you don’t hear.
I show you my feelings, but you don’t see.
Why do I feel so alone?
Why do I feel like no one understands me?
Why do I feel like no one knows I’m here?
Like I could just disappear and no one would know?
Maybe it’s because I’ve already disappeared.
Maybe I’m
Invisible.

I refuse to be the puppet
That you dangle on the string,
I refuse to be the person
You always count on for things.

I refuse to have everything
Dumped on me,
I refuse to always be the one
Begging on her knees.

I refuse to be lied to,
Purposefully ignored;
I refuse to be the one
Who is left out in the storm.

I refuse to be left out as refuse;
Worthless, forgotten trash
That you threw out your window,
Scattering my soul to ash.

It’s okay.
It’s okay that you constantly
Ignore me, never text me,
Purposely refuse to answer my phone calls.
It’s okay that I spend my nights in tears,
Trying to fathom your motives,
Never finding solace in sleep.
It’s okay that you never listen to me
When I speak, that you always
Cancel our plans,
That you don’t seem to care about me
Anymore.
It’s okay.
I guess I was never good enough.

Many a summer ago,
I dwelt with aching heart
Far apart
On that forgotten road
I hear
The small, dim, summer star
Tireless, but slow and sad
But among them all
She’s the only one that
Sings.

Lovers, forget your quarrels and
Listen to the flower,
The breeze,
The finch’s tune,
And find the love in them.
Breathe
And win the fight within
Yourself
And then, lovers, your
Fight will be
A hundred miles away.

I change so often,
I hardly know what I truly am.  
One minute I’m a grand mansion on a hill,
Overlooking everyone and everything with
An air of pompous superiority, taking
Everything for granted and appreciating nothing.
The next minute I’m a humble cottage in the woods,
Allowing animals and wanderers to frolic in my midst,
Even welcoming them into my home.
I can also take a form of a modern lakehouse,
Feeling rushed and unused and fake,
Trying to stay with the times,
But never being fully enjoyed.  
From time to time, I’m a
Makeshift shelter that the homeless traveler
Builds in a hurry, that feels unwanted,
Unloved, and temporary, liable to fall at any second.  
Even though I change forms frequently,
No one questions it.  
No one bothers to try and get to know
The true me.  Maybe the real me is a
Cozy family home, comforting and familiar,
Or maybe it’s the slightly cramped apartment space,
Frantically trying to piece itself together.  
No one will ever know.  
Yet all they would have to do is
Just knock.