Be-be-be-because, he starts,
stutters breaking words apart,
intoning what he’d overheard;
it’s painful listening, like darts

prying loose repeated words.
Naught’s amiss, we say, the birds
they laugh at us, ignored lampoons
and bullies’ taunts, how absurd.

He sits and watches his cartoon-
two mice who call a cat buffoon
I hate mieces to pieces!* shouts
Jinx the cat; it ends too soon.

Our son despises school, flat out.
We believe him, there’s no doubt,
But he’s a well-adjusted sprout
But he’s a well-adjusted sprout.

There is something to be learnt from
the trees that let go
Of autumn leaves so silently: no grudges, no scorn
It is nature's way of telling
Parting is the price we all have to pay for love.

There is something to be learnt from
The leaves that hit the ground
After being held so high
It Is nature's way of telling us
It has never been about the fall
But how gracefully we do it

There is something to be learnt from
The empty sky at twilight
How it bleeds every time the sun leaves
Yet it tries to find solace in those thousand little suns
There is always something to be grateful about.

Maybe she was born.
Maybe.
Sometimes she doesn't know.
Because to be born,
you must first be alive.
And she isn't so sure
Anymore.

She was born into a land
of gold and riches and fame.
Into a world where she is
Just another soul.
1/6.8 BILLION

So who gives a ****?

But then they wrapped like
a blanket, tight-knit
over her.
Warm, thick,
she didn't deserve the comfort they
Provide.

So she became
1/5.
Because there are four other people on this
Miserable
Planet who love her
with a  love simply not
based on conditions or
destination.
A love based simply
on existence.

So the four watched her grow
from infant to toddler.
And then four grew to
five.
And the love didn't change.

Milestone by simple
Milestone
they watched her grow,
Removing the blanket
bit by bit,
Until one day,
it was
gone.

Beautiful is how she sees herself. She is
Always full of questions for the one who has the answers. She is full of
Youth and vibrancy. Always taking chances and risks, busy
Living life to the fullest extent. She is more
Intelligent than she gives herself credit for.
Exuberant to the point of sickness.

Always asking the questions no one wants to answer. She easily gets
Lost inside of her own mind. She
Yearns for summer. But all she has are memories of all the
Summers of years past. If
Only she would realize that all we have is today and tomorrow will
Never come if she is too

Busy living in the past to
Accept and enjoy the pleasures of the now. She remembers all too well the
Remnants of days that didn't go as planned and if she's not careful she will get lost inside the
Remnants. She tries to remember that
Every day is not a reminder of yesterday, but a second chance
To live better
Tomorrow.

Loneliness knits it's way into my sole being,
leaving no surviving aspect of my life
unturned.
'Feelings' and 'phases' come and go,
where my heart is afloat,
where my heart is a stone.
It sinks.
"Still" I tell myself,
maybe it's just the winter.
My melancholy heart longs to write in beautiful spoken words,
but they can't be captured by a shaky soul like mine,
left to repeat rhapsodies of some whimsical person who didn't know any better.
My mind can't find you because you won't let me find you,
you run away
faster than I can chase.
Loneliness captures me again,
it may have nit picked at my happiness
but my smile was never fake but for a moment.

Dear love,
Please let me know you.

I stole my voice from a red headed boy my freshman year of high school. His twiddling thumbs and broken pencils caught my eye,
I picked up the bad habit like it was smoke entering my pretty pink lungs  for the first time.
I wrote run on sentences that lingered somewhere between lyrical and tragic,
I stumbled through nouns and mumbled my way to failing before I even tried. I just wanted peace to expand my broken artistic ability,
My home life was anything but quiet. I drowned out the noise with cracking spines,
A new book with perfect pages... I wanted to staple myself into them. Managing sadness with stress I took to the lines of notebooks to relieve my aching emotions,
My eyes continued to flutter shut in disappointment so I took to writing about others,
Women in back alleys that guzzle bottles of catcalls like a baby,
fishnets aren't the unspoken yes.
Men who cry themselves to sleep at night,
third world countries that have it worse than us,
My eyes are still dry from staring at the broken pencils in front of me. Unfinished pieces of art that speak loudly in the minds of others,
but leave me with fake expression and a burning in my throat that won't go away. I picked up the bad habit of a worldly mind that couldn't keep it's mouth shut, and
with all the smoke entering my lungs...
I'm writing in staggering breaths and coughs. I'm writing in screams and shouts and  complete ignorance to what's going on around me,
maybe I should start with the room i'm sitting in. Maybe,
I should start with me. But not with my sadness or my stress or my life at home,
I'll start with the passion that I stole from a redheaded boy my freshman year of high school. I'll start with my bad... habits.