Sometimes I do wish
you could hear just
how dangerous this
silence can be.

We're all just a bunch of dying writers
trying to live again,
only able to mend ourselves with words
never spoken aloud.
Poetry is born out of brokenness and healing,
so whether you are hurting or putting
your pieces back together,
please never stop writing.

For 9 years
It’s sat on my desk,
Through a move,
Through winters with windows open
For 9 years,
sitting, watching

Tonight I take it down
Remember the girl who made it
Way back in 3rd grade
I unfold it
For the first time
Scribbled in the wings
She had scrawled a note

I have a crush on you

Nine years,
This declaration has sat on my desk
Watching me
Letting me look back to better times
All the while
Telling me she liked me
On the wings of a sticky note crane