I spelled out my secrets
in the language of the flowers,
with petals mixed in with my tears.
Please let the words of these blossoms
be heard more than my story to tell.

I'm a waste of space.
Waste of time.
Waste of air.
Waste of the time you spent on me.


Time you spent with me
Me of all people.
I felt free.
Loved.
Wanted.



But it was just your sick little lie, your sick little game.

I wonder what really makes a man?
Is it the blueprint or his plan?
Will he be judged by his deed?
Or by the child he ministered to in need?
Irregardless of the wealth or the fame
A man shall always be known by his family name
Like a stalwart tree against the gale
He stands strong, never to fail



09/25/2020

what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul

what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence

what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable

what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists

we were poor
but not deluded

and when
van morrisson's
"brown eyed girl"
comes on the radio on
that worn
old
brown rug
my brother and I
started tapping our feet
shaking our heads
to the music and
our sisters are smiling
at us and
our mother is laughing
at us

and all we needed was
laughter and love
a prayer and a song

turn up the radio