I don’t know,
is not a very good answer
when someone asks
“who are you?”

it is the one thing I do not know
the one thing I could bear,
simply being told

someone to dig into the very rotten core of me
hands bleeding as they cup my face
and say,
“there you are, I’ve been looking for you”

Goldfinches
And dandelions compete
For yellowest yellow.

I want to believe in steady things,
but even my own reflection changes
when I look too long.
Are you here?
Do you love me?
Will you stay?
I ask without asking,
watching for the answer
in the way your hands move,
the way your breath hesitates before a word.

I know I feel too much,
ask too much,
but the silence between us is louder
than anything I could say.
So I fill it.
With words, with fear, with love—
all spilling over,
all too much,
all at once.

And still, I wonder, if it’s enough.

This poem may  
be lovely or
clever, but it is
analogy, made
of appearances,
insubstantial, like
a finely attired,
beautiful corpse.

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.

She was always the poet,
but never the poem—
left aching to be unveiled,
forever waiting in the unknown.

She yearns to be a muse,
the subject of every scribe,
inked into love letters,
inspiring a guitar's stride.

But they touched her like plastic
on golden chocolate—
cast her off like *******,
forgotten and discarded.

When I sit alone,
Someone will ask, “Can I use this chair?”
Then carry it to another table
To laugh with friends over there—
Leaving me, still and silent,
Closed off like a clam.

What will I leave
when I leave
a bunch of words
for someone to read?

What will I leave
when I leave
memories of a life less lived?

What will I leave
when I leave
dreams that remained unfulfilled?

Whatever I leave behind
will stay behind.
Not be my companion
in that other world.