-Can I talk about it?
~Can you?
-I cannot.

A house is not a home,
your heart is a place where I am
but that's not where I belong.

Life is attempting to walk down the stairs in darkness.
You can get better at it if you're familiar with them.
It gets better with time. But what if doesn't?
You'll stumble and fall like a toddler.

A chalice filled with the wine of word,
love rotted with time into hurt.
The viscous, darkened liquid
runs in veins instead of blood.
Bubbling liquids spew out
of my decaying mouth.
Bloodshot eyes are searching for
a familiar hand to hold.
Do not ask about the soul,
it's already sold.

We're kids- all of us.
Then,
why do we force each other to grow up?

I am stuck in the trappings of poetry.
I have an exam to answer at 8 am.
I read and rejoice.
But I am sure
that I'll be overwhelmed
by regret in the morning.

They stand high and firm.
Unwavering strength to listen to it all.
All the love and it’s absence
were encountered by these dutiful walls.
Countless beings came by,
some to conserve and some to destroy.
They still didn’t crumble down.
For they had stories to tell.
Memories and existences
that fared the test of time.
Frozen in these walls of being,
are the lives of numerous beings.
Recording their lives
in a concealed script.
Old houses appear desolate.
They are not homes anymore.
Old forts have this despair.
That they wish to share,
But can’t.
It’s their irony.
They’re strong but sad.
Have words to say but can’t.