to fall for someone means catching them, right?
like holden caulfield pictured it, there should
logically be someone who can catch the kids who
start to go over the cliff if they’re not paying
attention to where they’re going metaphorically.
however, the rules of love does not play fair.
a lot of times, the catcher in the rye becomes
a phantom limb. everything is disillusioned
and phony, don't let the world try to trick you.

then what kind of ******* am i pushing when
i'm pushing myself towards the cliff? do i
kiss you out of loneliness? do i miss love?

don't let the absence swallow you, or you'll
be riding for a fall—it’s a special kind of fall,
a horrible kind. i'm not permitted to feel or
hear myself hit bottom. i just keep falling
and falling. the moment i turned towards
the cliff, i was letting you crawl into my skin,
and you infected me like a plague so fast
that i could see my vision get blurry from
the sides from running towards that cliff.

all i know is i’m one of the kids in the field
of rye sprinting towards the edge of the cliff
with open eyes hoping the catcher in the rye
will rope his arm around my stomach before
i plummet. the fall i think i’m riding for - it’s
a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. i’m not
permitted to feel or hear myself hit the bottom.
i just keep falling and falling until the catcher
helps me get back onto my feet, however, i can
not pitch the ball and catch it too.

- kra

Whenever I see you it seems like all the beauty in
the world collides and  nobody ever seems
to notice because it all happens
with every single one of my atoms
sensing every single one of yours.

I swear I saw you in the sky today.
Up there with the sun
With a detaching atmosphere, as if...
You were a sun of your own.
Whether it was your voice in the waves
melting me into rooted rocks,
Or my own mind drifting to the clouds-
I don't know.

Would it be better
if I were shelved, or displayed
to the world; as art:
to bare my sorrows?

Would you accept
my aching presence, then?
I ask with my heart
Unseen and unheard; because:
My voice is bound
to lines and margins.

Be a man
Said the father to his son,
Men don’t cry,
To this social construct we
Must abide:

Masculinity –
Equated with strength and
Emotional reserve

Femininity -
characterized by
Fragility and sensitivity

What if strength is much more?
What if strength has no gender?

Strength

The ability to be yourself
And pursue your aspirations despite
Social pressures and ridicule

Strength

To maintain composure and show restraint
When feeling threatened rather than allowing
Fear or anger wrest control.

Strength

To sympathize and tolerate
Those who think differently than you.

Lioness prowling the savannah
While the lions enjoy their slumber.

I hate when you leave the toilet seat up
Or how you spill toothpaste over the sink
I hate finding your clothes hung over furniture
And how you sleep pushed up against my back
Radiating your heat all through the night
I hate even more waking and realizing you're gone
I still can't bring myself to erase the signs of you
It's been a hundred and twenty days since you left
A hundred and twenty days since I last saw you
A hundred and twenty days since I touched you
I remember staying up late at night
You said you'd travel to the most distant places
With or without me
I never thought you'd actually do it
A hundred and twenty days since you left
I still feel you pushed up against me at night
And I wake to an empty spot on the bed
With a matching pain in my heart
While grief is the only one I wake up to
A hundred and twenty days since your death

I no longer think hopes and dreams die
They float around this Earth waiting
Waiting until we give birth to our children
That's when they will reappear
Wrapping themselves around them
Creating an Impenetrable force field
Giving our children the strength we lacked
Helping them achieve the desires
That rumble in their bellies
They will allow the beam of light
The one we will pass down to them
To burst out of their chest
Not fearing the moon's envy
For their light will be the brightest
It will guide bodies
To their own hearts destinations
Stories will be written on staggering walls
About the children of failure who rose up
Who had so much passion
That they created their own light
Led love and happiness
To the doorsteps of many
Brought misery to its knees
With constant humble human nectar
That is what our children will be

Got up late
missed fog
the nature sizzler
in my garden
a drop on shoulder
might be a dew
a condensed of fog
stored by my tree..