they say the grass is always greener on the other side

I say, ‘while I think my side looks brown, I will water it till it’s green’

and that’s

that’s something I look forward to doing everyday

Dear Dead Poet,

One day I will be you. I think that’s beautiful to think or maybe it’s a silly human thought conceived to help us justify the inevitable ending we all face, that you already faced. I’m sorry i’m not being sensitive to your situation but I have so much to learn from you & I wanted to let you know it. Dead poet, when reading your poem earlier you spoke on love. In death, do you feel it valuable or necessary to life or do we the living yearn for it to veil our misery? Do you have the answer? Please write me back with your insight if you can.

sincerely,
living poet

I can’t help but think of you
your my inspiration

i don’t think i’m yours

but you don’t even know your mine so
how could i know
if i’m yours

I met you
and not to be dramatic
in the age where people don’t like each other
but I think I like you

in a way that feels comfortable
a knowing feeling

like a deep sigh of relief
like I knew you in a past life
and my soul is ready to reconnect with yours

‘runt’

i’ll never get over it

‘you shouldn’t say that mom..’

‘well she is.’

stings & burns
on my whole heart

my whole heart
shattered to pieces by a few words

‘that really hurts to hear you say that mom.’

she shrugs
& brushes me off like a piece of lint
i look at the lint
feeling like I got punched in the gut

i walk away
to my dark bedroom
slamming my head to into my pillow
crying my eyes out
till I have a migraine for the rest of the night
leaving my self value
in the hands of the woman
who made me

Dear Dead Poet,

I read your poem to my class today.
They didn’t understand it.

I felt bad because they probably won’t ever think about the words that I read them again. Not ever

Maybe they will when the face the challenges you & I have. They’ll think about your words then.

But I wish they would listen now. I wish you were here now.

My classmates don’t understand & I doubt they ever will.

Dear Dead Poet please write me back when you can. I feel like you understand me or you are me.

Yours truly,

Dead Poet

the middle ground
between
war & peace

is reality