Some people see light in me
Fire inside that I don't see
Burning bulb of a spirit sweet
Expectations I fail to meet

Some people think I am great
Love the pieces I create
Only imperfections there
A decent work is oh-so-rare

Some people know the things that I have done
Battles fought but never won
Yet they love me despite my wrong
Believing it made me strong

Some people wish I would try
Push myself until I cry
They don't realize that I do
The fire in me just won't shine through

Some people see grief inside
One I so carefully hide
Because I understand but they don't see
Some people cannot be what you want them to be

I wrote poems for a boy
that didn’t know words flowed from my veins
that a mountain of bones
made up my brain
neural pathways that could only be described
as broken branches from a tree
that saw too little sunlight
and overdosed on rain.
I put my soul on paper
for a boy who didn’t realize that it was cracked
that the sun didn’t shine through my broken parts
and love wasn’t a band-aid that could fix
the damage that had chipped away
at my ability to feel.
For longer than I have the ability to remember
he couldn’t see that these words
meant more to me than living
and when I wrote about him
it meant that I was even more broken
from thinking about how
he couldn’t fathom a world in which
I couldn’t understand my own thoughts
until they were ink
drying on a page next to my tears.
I wrote poetry for a boy
who didn’t understand
the words that ached to be released
from my bloodstream
and it hurts me that
he probably never will

Words are hard.
I know I'm not saying
Anything revolutionary.
For all of the human race
Speech poses a quandary:
Do I speak?

Words are hard.
You know the saying:
Like a stone, words hurt:
Shattered bones, shattered soul,
Shattered self worth.
Can I speak?

Words are hard.
They take more energy
than I have left to give.
Perhaps if I ignore the rest
I'll have a will to live.
Why should I speak?

Words are hard.

in me, i see you—
a young man, small, timid;
dark hair, dark eyes

stubborn, irresponsible—
full of bad decisions

somebody who has no control
someone who has no freedom

for whom love is not enough
who has everything that he could ever want and still be unhappy
a home
a family
some faith in the universe
you still want more

in me, i see you
and that is something i wish wasn’t true

her words shattered
because she has no voice.
her opinion doesn't matter
she has no choice.

her life forsaken
taken away from the world.
no one wants to hear you
because you are a girl.

her mind full of ideas
but she doesn't want a riot.
she keeps her ideas to herself,
the world wants her to be quiet.

When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.

When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.

I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.

Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.

I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."

Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.

I look at my chest the way I'd look at a wound
I know it's a part of me,
I know it's there,
But it feels temporary,
And a little gross,
Like when I sliced my thumb
On glass at 1am.
My binder is a bandage
And it's hard to take it off,
Because I feel the wound open up,
And my back hurts from wearing the bandage,
But it's so much better than
Seeing where my skin splits in two