Upon my hand, the mint tea spilled and burned,
In flames and pain, my love to ash was turned.
I watched the scar, the rising smoke and flame,
And wondered why such harm from love became.

How fiercely can the things we cherish sting—
This bitter truth that hurtful moments bring.
That day, I mourned a sorrow deep and wide:
The tea I loved held no love to confide.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I have a fascination with
all things love,
Daydreams constructing expectations
and a daily need for a thing which
I have yet to experience,
It's an obsession which has
evolved into a fear ~
Fear of a broken heart,
of a lonely life,
of distracted dreams.

~ Funny my ability to
overthink.

The moon comes to me,
at once with melancholy.
Like old friends.

Suppose I am just blue.
pale, hardly replicable.
Neither black; nor white but
lacking saturation
nevertheless.

Please weave your
nerves along
My bones,
my marrow is
your supper.
Please wrap your
never ending
absoluteness around
My eternity,
my endlessness is
your reward.

It’s the kind of sadness where your rib cage
Contorts
And twists and
Snaps.

Depression doesn’t float through my veins
It crawls through my bones, with dagger hands
And winding movements.

I cannot breathe.

And yet there was nothing taken from me.

Kindness
was a house.

Knitted by
knowing you.

It was made
of sticky notes.

Encouragement
aching for actions.

Friendship
is the fuel.

Hearts only
in its windows.

Looks didn’t
really matter.

A firm foundation
invisible.

Gates of wisdom
walk to it.

Depression
laughed at it.

Gossip galloped
away from it.

The golden rule
knew better.