In this river of doubt
Can’t swim my way out

In a place I don’t know
No yellow brick road to follow

A wanderer lost and all alone
Just hoping to find my way home

i think that the most damaged people in the world
are the kindest
and the softest

because they know
that scabs can be picked
and you can bleed

I carry what you said with me.
The aching in my bones.
The bruising on my soul.
The scars on my skin.
It’s less of a choice, and
more of a sickness.

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

hiding in the dark
a retreat to solitude
the trees hold my hand