I think a lot about the man
who drove off the Virginia pier
last year.

He sped through the gates—
a very public space,
he followed his fear,
and created his own fate.

Yet at the very edge,
he still hit the brakes.

All the rage
of his pain,
as his regret
seeped in,
he had realized
he met his end.

I feel for him,
I wept watching the news,
I feel for him,
part of me wished,
I was in his shoes.

Is it insensitive of me
to say
I wish I could
trade?

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.

Is it selfish of me
to seek the serenity of eternal sleep?
To ruin you is to soothe me,
to surrender is to find peace.
But to protect you
is to forever digress.
How could we ever agree?

Driving a car,
a car that isn't mine,
taking it afar,
down highway 99,
driving a car,
and I could swerve at anytime,
I wonder what would happen
if I took it off to the side—
parked on a lookout,
considering the view down,
but the car isn't mine,
so I buckled my seatbelt
and continued into town.

Worship me—
soothe me tenderly,
fall to your knees,
to feast on me reverently.

Unsheathe and release,
while my divine fruit
drips fertility,
oh,
so heavenly.

Like nectar—
liquid silk spills,
legs twisted together,
and hushed playful yells.

Unveil me—
feel my energy,
open your eyes to see,
grace my purity,
and nurture—
but don't flee.

I am not just a body—
but a memory,
the sweetest plea,
a spell of ecstasy,
fall into my sea,
worship me—
and I will gift thee.

would they all scream my name,
when my soul is laid into a grave—
a name carved in vain,
as the dirt buries a bird—
a bird who no longer sang,
for all the harmonies lost their way;
in a haze,
in a maze,
in a daze,
in a craze,
caged,
de-feathered and of age,
a crave for the wastes,
with clipped wings and covered in sage—
a prayer was sang to weep its wage,
for the bird never was thanked,
despite all its duty and all its grace,
a messenger never asked,
what would you like to say?

She found herself running—
and she doesn't know why,
the mirror made it all seem so far away,
as the reflection was inching closer,
she found herself running—
and it was from her own picture.
Early morning reflections,
while staring into my own eyes;
running to no avail,
as your feet can't walk in a straight line;
running for no reason,
as you lose track of time;
running to self-soothe—
as your words effortlessly rhyme;
running,
because you won't delve into your mind;
running,
because you're scared of what will happen
if you left it all behind.