I want to write poetry
like a confession that I’m bleeding
like blood that I’m crying
like a heart’s cry that I’m singing
like it’s a love song that I’m feeling
like it’s a feeling that I’m fighting
like it’s a fight I’m welcoming
like it’s a welcome I’m inviting
like it’s an invite I’m opening
like I’m open and amazing
I want to write amazing poetry
like I’m reading some famous poet
and that poet in me

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and there fell a poem
into my head
like a song…

“One day you will ask me
which is more important?
My life or yours?
I will say mine
and you will walk away
not knowing
that you are my life.”

I slept on the bed
of a poet, Gibran
and my dreams were filled
in my heart was a song
a longing so sweet
a desire too strong
till the museum guard came
and moved me along

I hate my life,
As it is plain and simple,
I hate the way,
That I am the master,
And the jester,
At the same time,

And I'm so indicisive whether I should act or not,
Or pick or choose,
Or hate or love,
I simply just can't make up my mind,
And decide what I want from life,
If I want to live or just wait around,

And I'm always so anxious,
About the smallest things that happen'
While comparing myself to others,
As they are always better,
Even if it doesn't matter,
Since we won't be around forever.

It's a strange world out there.
Everyone is scared.
Everyone is anxious.
An invisible enemy is stalking us.
But the flowers are still beautiful.

Waves of anxiety wash over me.
It's not safe out there anymore.
Freedom has taken a break it seems
and left survival in its place.
But the flowers are still beautiful.

A sea of mask covered faces lies before me.
Gradually they move past,
being careful not to get too close.
Some of the faces are anguished.
Some are crying.
Some show no emotion at all.

But the flowers are still beautiful.

This long life has been
informed by love.  We shared
each other Oh! for so
short a time.

Like fruit we hung onto
the sweet drops of new
nectar's night.
We peeled each other
to the pink skin of sighs.

It was a delicate scent
when blown into the
stars quiet Space.  We
sped into the walls of
destiny and crashed
in the pulp of sorrow.

But I miss you in this
orchard of dessicated
memories.

I am rawed by the thought
of you.

Caroline Shank

And then we part
into storm and chaos and we do so because
we can
because
we know

in truth

nothing

separates us