i sometimes stay up all night wondering
'will i ever be good enough for someone?'
i don't know if i ever will
because the scars on my legs
and the holes in my heart
make it hard for me
to ever believe i'll ever find someone.

i've built a wall of insecurity and fear
that is so high and insurmountable
that i don't think i even know
who's behind that wall anymore.

i'm so scared that someone
won't understand that while
i've never suffered any true trauma
my scars are in my brain
down a well so deep i don't know
if i'll ever be able to drag them out to heal.

is it so much to ask for someone
who understands that your fear is
so deep down that you're not sure
if you'll ever be brave again?
that you cannot handle failure
and that you're not sure if anything you do or say
as a result of your fear is going to drive them away or not
and you cannot handle failing someone again.

so for now, until that wall has broken down
the teddy bear that knows your secrets
that has held you while you've cried
that's been there for you always
will have to be enough of a hug while you sleep.

maybe the next time i wake up
there'll be a brick missing from the wall
maybe the light of a brighter future
will pour in and push me
one day at a time
one brick at a time
the wall will come down.

and maybe one day
it'll serve as a memory
of just how far i've come
and i'll feel the light on my face
warming me up to the endless possibilities.

maybe inside the light i'll find you
whoever you are
hopefully you're out there.

*––s.m.

Colored streaks on the pavement
Grinding stone against stone
We return our source of enjoyment to the Earth
Sidewalk chalk tastes like childhood.

Body tracings, blue skies, big fish-- our cement canvas is filled
Filled with youthful thoughts and unlikely realities
A world of our own creation;
One we can stomp on
Cross out
Wash away

The presence of an unknown friend
Everyone is a friend, we are young and naive
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Our wonder reaped the same;
The new face shows only bewilderment

“Draw with us”

Chubby childish hands exchange colored chalk
Despite our encouragement, this outlander won’t join in
It’s now a game for us
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Foreign motions, fast moving fingers, a frustrated face

“Draw with us”

His hesitant movements are masked
By an apologetic smile
He brings new things to our Crayola-created universe
A trumpet, its player, a lion in mid-roar,
All things ordinary
Nothing we’ve drawn before

Like the colors we immerse ourselves in
Our company doesn’t last
Our accomplice offers a wave
Leaving his silent marks in our little world.

Life’s moments and happenings are like little thieves
They don’t want any money
They still take it
Putting salt on cracked lips, stealing the warmth of a heart
Sobs resonate in lonely halls
Everything reeks
Of lifeless dust
Even darkness can’t fight them off
Or push away the pain

The cold, swift figures taste like hatred
Longtime friend with the soul of a sister
Offers a consoling embrace
It bleeds good feelings
Now they want our money
Thieves aren’t fair, nor logical
No rhyme
No reason
Life’s a poorly written song
Bad music *****
The bold melody clashes
With its vague accompaniment
We didn’t want them so we welcomed them

‘There must be some way out of here’
Said the joker to the thief
I don’t think there is any way out

The precious tokens of life should be protected
By an army of mindlessly trained children
Who fall in love with the thieves
Whose forgiving minds omit the fear

Thieves call us easy
We are forever sobbing
Cries heard only by past selves and invisible belongings
When we prove we are great
And pass impassable tests
Everything will return

We aren’t capable of such feats
Our memories sing us haunting songs
We cry out with our salty lips
And empty hearts
Robbed of any motivation
Robbed of any care
Robbed of love

the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games

we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions

blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade

under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar