I've lost myself in the woods ---
Again.
But, don't worry, I have a lantern.
The Light is weak, and scattered
against the four walls of
Darkness that claw at me.
Voices whisper of a path:
A nice one full of warmth and love.
I turn to look, but before I can see,
I'm pulled down this path, struggling to breathe
and trying to break away from needy hands.
In the struggle, I've dropped the lantern.
It's warm here,
But, it's becoming too much.
Wait, what's that? My lantern.
Small rays of Light fight against claws to find me.
It's harder than I thought, picking the lantern up again ---
and finally seeing again.
This isn't what I was told.
This isn't what I wanted.
There isn't love here, only lies.
A voice whispers to me, sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
Another voice calls, a horde of
screaming people, calling me to reality.
But, I've wanted this path for so long,
dreamed of this way before I even knew it.
How can I turn that away when it’s teasing at my fingertips?
Are you the devil in disguise
Or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?
The lantern is gone now, dropped during the struggle.
I think I know where I'm going, but without Light, I'm ignorant.
I will trip in these woods, this I'm sure of.
I've been caught on branches, and cut by thorns.
I've run from wolves, and have been bitted by bears.
I want to find my way.
I want to find the light, in the ever changing world of dark.

One Rose.
One Rose is beautiful, special, unique.

One bouquet.
One bouquet is overwhelming, unoriginal, common.

One Rose.
One Rose that has been nursed from a seed, watched grow, and given at the perfect time.

One bouquet.
One bouquet that was hastily picked, paid for, and given out of fit.

One Rose.
One Rose is all a person truly needs.

One bouquet.
One bouquet if you haven't found your Rose just yet.

The greatest temptation of a trapped body is freedom.
A freedom of the soul that leaves the body behind,
in its prison,
and releases the soul
into the autumn wind.
The body is left with the dying green;
buried in browns, burgundies, and blacks;
decorated with red ribbons, purple and blue flowers,
and a rope -- around the neck.

A rope sent by the Devil in the mind's weakest state.
It coiled itself around the neck and hissed in the ears.
It sang:
So long as the body is snared, so is the soul and mind.
Yet, the mind wonders through deserts and swims in oceans.
But the rope sank its fangs deep into the mind,
releasing a poison that brought it to the prison of the body.
It became a mind craving the same release as the soul.
That is when the Devil wins; when temptation is taken,
and the soul has died,
alone,
lost in the autumn wind.

Close your eyes.
Do you hear it?
The soft ticking in the background;
The sound of ink being punched onto parchment.

When you blow out your candles,
close your eyes,
and listen as the paper is reset.
Life is like a typewriter,
equipped with limited paper and red, Red ink ribbon.

Every action:
word, breath, kiss,
is stamped onto parchment.
Some people try to white it out,
forget it ever happened.
But turn the page over,
place it in front of the flame
and the red ink will be there,
a constant reminder.
Read what you’ve written,
be astonished by words,
and ashamed of phrases.
But accept the idea that it is the past, and cannot be undone.

Nothing is planned, for the parchment ahead is blank,
but this is not always a bad thing:
A blank page is like an open trail.
You’re free from restrictions and guidelines.

Will you sit with me,
close your eyes,
and listen for our typewriters?
One day,
when I re-read my story,
I hope you will always be in there,
somewhere close.

Have you ever
carried the world
and not known it?
Went on with your
life, without care?
Collecting stones,
shining pebbles,
weighing pearls.

When you can't feel the mountains protruding from your back,
The
waves
crashing behind
your eyes,
storms
                 brewing
                                    in your ears;
the devil in your head,
and the angel in your heart.

When you don't know
they're there, you grow
envious of
other people's
treasures. They lug
heavy buckets
of stones, pebbles,
and pearls while
it seems you own
a small pouch that
is worth nothing.

So you spend your days at the river,
collecting stones,
                 shining pebbles,
                              weighing pearls.
With some, they can see
                                          the storm coming;
                                                         ­                                               hear the thunder
before the lightning strikes.
With me,
it was
a pebble,
a shiny pebble that
                                                            ­                                                       jumped
from its bucket,
flew up: past the angel, devil, oceans, and storms, landed on the mountains and crushed
me
under its weight.
The mountains shook and
crumbled from the weight,
the
waves
crashing and
churning –
overflowing.
The storms
                       made me
                                                              ­                 deaf
but I can still hear
the devil screaming
and feel the angel dying.

I have no choice
but to proceed
to lug heavy
buckets of stones,
and of pebbles,
and of pearls
while the other
people go on
without a care;
with a small pouch
that is worth so
much – that I’d die
to hold again.

Poetry is fleeting.
It's like a drop of water on your dry tongue in the desert -
you don't know when it'll come again -
a scary feeling.
It's like a storm that passes over you, drenching you in rain -
but only for a brief moment -
and then it's gone.
It's like a passing subway train.
It's like a flash of lightning and
the only thing that you can remember is an echoing thunder where it once shone.
One moment it's there, singing songs and rhymes in your head.
And the next, it leaves you drained with only fragments.
You only have a few seconds.
By the time it's written, it's different, and can never be the same again.
It can never be that Angel's whisper,
but a true artist depends on how close you can get to that Angel.

We all travel paths, alone, until we are intersected.
Some paths are wide enough for several people to follow,
Others are a tightrope that you have to balance.
There are roads that loop in circles, never seeming to end,
But a number of trails do not divulge from forward.
And every time a path is crossed, you meet someone new.
And, like every thing, you have a choice.

It's customary to give a piece of yourself away.
It's just a small piece, a very very small cut from your cake,
What difference will it make?
So what if all you say is:
"I love you."
Or you even give away a kiss, or something greater?
What difference will it make?

Every time you give a piece away,
That's a little less of you left for someone more important.
(That's the difference it makes.)
Someone more important than that ex-boyfriend or lost friend,
Or maybe not? Their importance in your life is up to you.
That makes this your choice.
It's up to you whether they are worthy.
This is your soul you're giving away.

Your path will continue, even if they don't choose to follow.
It goes on, sunrise to set, and throughout the night.
Mornings with cotton candy skies, and avian lullabies.
Evenings with fire clouds.
Nights with diamonds.
Don't give yourself all away at once: you'll never see what comes next.
Your path will continue, continue to be interrupted by people.
Good people with good intentions;
Devils with Angelic facades.
How much you give them is up to you,
This is your path, and your choice.

I've lost myself in the woods ---
Again.
But, don't worry, I have a lantern.
The Light is weak, broken, and shaken
against the four walls of
Darkness that claws at me.

There's a voice on my left,
sweet as syrup and smooth as silk,
it says things I've longed to hear.
But, at the same time,
There's a voice on my right,
painful as a potent poison and raw as rigid razors,
it says things I don't want to hear.
But is it the angel that whispers
sweet nothings
or is it the devil?
Should I layer myself like a grain of sand in an oyster
or should I dive, head first, into the cold water?

One of the voices whispers of a path:
A nice one full of warmth and love.
I turn to look, but before I can see,
I'm pulled down this path, struggling to breath
and trying to break away from needy hands.
In the struggle, I've dropped the lantern.
But, that's okay.
It's warm here, I guess.
But, it's becoming too much.
Wait, what's that? My lantern.
Small rays of light fight against claws to find me.
It's harder than I thought, picking the lantern up again ---
and finally seeing again.
This isn't what I was told.
This isn't what I wanted.
There isn't love here, only lies.

And now, another voice whispers to me,
sweet and angelic.
It must be an angel, to be so kind and gentle.
My right shoulder is in pain, a horde of
screaming people, calling me to reality.
But, I've wanted this path for so long,
dreamed of this way before I even knew it.
How can I turn that away when it is teasing at my
fingertips?
Tell me.
Please, I want to know.
Are you the devil in disguise
Or an angel undercover?
If I reach out, will I be burned?

The lantern is gone now, dropped during the struggle.
I think I know where I'm going, but without light,
I'm ignorant.
I will trip in these woods, this I'm sure of.
I've been caught on branches, and cut by thorns.
I've run from wolves, and have been bitted by bears.
I want to find my way.
I want to find the light, in the ever changing world of dark.

I wanted to dream.
I wanted to reach an
impregnable state;
a place where the
cold claws cannot clasp
around my humble heart.
And yet, I didn't want to leave.
The jagged jaw that juts itself
deep into my mellow mind
had found a home there.
It's familiar, friendly, and fond of my trains.
Trains that take me no where,
but lead me everywhere.
I have yet to find a train
that will take me away;
take me to a strange world,
and have its
foreign fangs flow flammable fluid
deep into my veins;
It will flood my tracks,
stop my trains,
and I may never be able to
leave.
Trapped.
Unable to escape
this impregnable world,
A world I thought I wanted.

Poetry is the art,
Of word selection.
It is the beautiful combination
Of syllables, rhymes, colors, and images.
A place where a description
Consists of few words.

In that sense,
I hope that one day,
The art of poetry that will depict me will be
Indescribable.
I wish for one day, to not be called
Beautiful
Pretty
Adorable or
Kind.
But, instead, I want to be
Indescribable.
"No one adjective can describe you, so you're
Indescribable.
You're everything: from beauty to fierce, and yet,
That doesn't seem enough. You are, love,
Indescribable."

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
What makes me me.
What makes a
Beach a
beach

What makes a beach a beach?
Makes it not a cliff;
Not an abyss?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

Without any water,
The Sand will not be.
It will stay rocks,
Become cliffs
Without
It.

If the Sand were not sand,
Water would usurp
The beach.  It would
Be ocean
Without
It.

The Water is a passion
that could become visious.
The Sand is strict as earth
that has become stable.


What makes this beach unique?
Makes it so unreal;
A fantasy?
It is the
Water;
Sand.

You can't ask who I am,
What is important,
Because it's all
Part of me:
Good and
Bad.

It took a while for it to sink in.
The cold truth, that should have dripped onto my face
like an early spring rain, toppled me,
wave after heavy wave,
with the solid wall of a tsunami
that knows no bounds. And when I wake, on the
beach after the storm, I lay among the
debris of everything I had,
everything I built.
Gone.
Well, not really gone.
Ruins of magnificent structures,
things that were nothing but pieces until construction.
It all began to crumble. Now,
the skeletons sit on their graves, staring
me down with soulless passion
while I begin to shiver.

It's like the saying "You don't know what you have,
until it's gone."
When you have absolutely no idea
how very lucky  you are until the
moment after it's all ripped away from
you. Yes, a moment after, because you
have to process slowly what just happened.
A delayed reaction.
Sometimes, depending on how numb you are
to the world that encases  you, it can
be the moment after. Or, if you are
completely oblivious to how lucky
you had it, you could die without a
complete realization.

I knew what I had.
I knew I was lucky.
I just never thought:
It would be me that made it crumble,
I was a malfunction--
Self-destruct too early.
They say you can rebuilt what you've lost,
That these skeletons that watch me can be revived.
But how can you stop a clock that's still ticking?
How can you make it go backwards,
When the hands swirl around, marching in an
Ever vigilant pattern unable to go anywhere but forward?
But I guess that's the point.
You can't change what's been done,
You can't bring back what's dead.
Because, in truth,
It's Gone.

Invincible.
You don't need a big poem to describe that feeling.
That one, simple, four syllable word
Is so powerful
There's no way to describe it properly.
Invincible.

People wonder why I look out the window,
Instead of climbing on the seats and hanging from
Open windows all while laughing like lunatics.
They wonder why I keep to myself,
And not whisper secrets or talk of people.

The window offers something that you can't.
I can watch my imagination dance on the mountain side,
Swim with the River People, and curl herself in the autumn leaves
Warmed by the afternoon sun
All through the glass.

I'm a star gazer.
I'm a dreamer.
I wouldn't change anything about me.
I wouldn't loose myself to join the herd.
Because while you're swinging on chandeliers,
Laughing like hyenas, loving like gorillas,
You can't see your imagination fly free.
It dies without you,
Alone on that mountain,
Frozen in the river,
Falling from the naked branches of winter trees.

So, no thank you,
I don't want to be like you,
I want to watch my imagination through the window
Because that's who I am.
And I wouldn't change anything about me.

We may travel in packs
But we're only ever just
Distorted puzzle pieces
Searching for our place.
And it's hard.
It's hard to fit into a puzzle
That isn't yours.
But how are we supposed to know?
There aren't roll calls or attendance,
Just expectant looks or
Sideway glares
That let you know if you're welcome
Or if you're alone.

But what happens when
The image is supposed
To make sense
But one piece doesn't fit?
How can someone deal with
That pressure to fit?
They run around the board,
Squeezing into any open space
They might resemble.
Because they crave for
That drug-- that feeling of belonging.
They're driven insane,
Depressed and alone,
Trying to be someone they're not.
These people drown
When no one is looking,
Detached, cold,
Floating deeper into a dark mind
All because no one made the effort
To make them feel like
They could fit.

There's a lonely thing,
When a piece hears the click into place
But the flower on me
Isn't like the swirl on her
And the image is trash,
Disgusting, hideous.
And how can you tell
That piece,
That has felt the drug-- the feeling,
How can you tell them to leave?
Because sometimes we
Click into cliques
That aren't ours.
These people break,
When no one is looking,
Silent, unwanted,
Falling into an abyss of shun.
All because they were turned on
Giving no room for thought
That they could fit.

There's a difference,
Whether the pieces fit
Or the image makes sense.
There's a beautiful thing,
When all of the pieces fit,
But each one belongs to
A different puzzle.
Where each piece hears the
Satisfactory click into place.
That feeling-- where you know
You belong.
That feeling-- it's a drug that
Drives each of us insane,
Depressed, and alone.
And even though the
Flower on me doesn't go
With the swirl on her,
The lines match
And we all come together
To make something truly beautiful.
And no one thought it was possible,
Even I lost hope.
These people dance
When no one is looking,
Warm, content,
Spinning on light feet
All because they reached out,
And made them feel that
They fit.

And when you find your puzzle,
The feeling is unforgettable.
Maybe it's a good feeling,
Or a feeling so light,
That it can fly on the lightest breeze,
Covering your world in this feeling.
I wouldn't know.
I'm still dancing, drowning, and breaking.
I know my puzzle is out there,
And it's time that I stop waiting around,
And go look for them.

I'm a broken doll
that sits on the top shelf
and stares down,
with glassy eyes,
onto the other dolls.
Plastic Barbies, American Girls,
Baby Dolls, and Raggedy Ann's,
They are coddled, held,
in a way that is foreign to me.
When I look at myself, I can see
the scratches in the porcelain,
the tears in the dress,
the heart that barely beats.
I'm the only one that can see,
these reminders of him.
I was misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions.
He's all I've known,
and the definition of all
that will take me from
my top shelf.
I've been taken off the self before.
But the things he said, actions he did,
they weren't like what the other dolls got.
So I put myself back on
my top shelf.
I can feel their eyes,
their wink, whispers, and smiles
of approval.
I've been reached for,
but I turn them away.
I don't want to be misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions again.
I know that their not all like him,
but I can't find myself trusting again.
So, I will sit on my top shelf,
and smile with red painted lips,
and maybe they won't see the pain inside.

This is it
the end.
Have all your loose
ends been tied?
All of your
debts been paid?
Good.
Now let us depart,
away from this crumbling world
and into the next.
I know it’s all falling around us,
with the ground shaking
and buildings tumbling, but
ignore it all,
and just come with me.
Together we’ll leave this horrid chasm
and sail away to an island.
One that hasn’t flooded,
one that has white sand,
blue oceans,
and swinging palm trees.
Look at me and
ignore it all,
dismiss the giant waves
and raging storms,
let the hurt go,
let the pain go, and
ignore it all.
I know that when the end comes,
we’ll be together,
away from the chaos.
Don’t worry about saying good bye,
we’ll see everyone in the end.
They’ll all be there, I promise. Now,
ignore it all,
and hold me tight
when the world ends.

When you're nervous
about a certain event,
date, or time, you think
"It'll never come," or
"It's so far away."
But as soon as you
step on stage or
walk into the room,
that certain event
that you're nervous about,
that moment is now.
You're heartbeat is so loud
that it's all you hear.
A giant drum that pounds
at your sanity
and you wonder...
"Can I do this?"
And it feels that
the time you were
nervous, so many days
ago, was just yesterday.
But when the music
starts, the power point
begins, or the whistle
blows --
Everything falls away.
It's just you
and the
task ahead.

you Can't Stop A War That's Already Begun.
Two Sides Face Down, Stalemate--
They Each Request my Aid,
But i Am Unable To Choose.
you Can't Calm The Tides That Are A Tsunami.
Waves That Crash, Relentless--
Time Is Running Out,
But i Am Unable To Choose.
you Can't Stop A Bullet That's Been Fired.
Small Metal With The Force Of A Hundred Men, Blood lust--
There Is No More Time,
i Must Choose.
And One Must Die.

CV
The initials of a school
branded on my wrist.
CV
The token of my
very first performance
CV
Memories that will fade
just as the ink on my wrist.
CV
Memories that have been absorbed, --
stored -- into my skin just as the ink.
CV
Gone. Memories that are
just fuzzed images now.
Missing. A past that has
drowned in the ocean of Now.
CV
**CV

So bored.
So...
bored...
Doodle.
Except,
I can't doodle.
What to doodle?
How do people doodle?
How do they see images
on a blank piece of paper?
Well, it must be like how I hear
poems in ringing silence. Doodle.
So bored. So... bored... Doodle. Cat?
I can't draw cats. Dog? The best you'll
get is a stick figure. Horse? No way. Hearts?
Predictable. Doodle? So bored. So... bored... Doodle.

The exchange happens
every year
every day
every hour.
Maybe the exchange happens
in the dead of night.
In the back ally of
some deserted block in
a busy city.
Mainly, the exchange happens
In broad day.
In flocks of chairs
that pack together in
one busy building.
The exchange is priceless,
so it is sold for free.
No, that's a lie--
You must offer your own--
sooner or later.
There is no due date
no interest
no penalties.
Whether you know it or not
you have taken part in the
exchange
every year
every day
every hour.

I can't trust anyone.
I can't hold someone close and
I can't love another.
But I want to.
Oh, how I want to trust you!
But I can't.
I can't explain,
Because I myself do not understand.

These are feelings,

Are sensations,
that blight every sense.

They have become
a disease that has
stolen my clarity

And leaves me with
ringing ears. These are
temptations that are like
extra shots of dopamine

And have left me
disoriented.
I hunger leave from this --
this ache that has consumed me
and left me hollow as a husk.

soon
soon we
shall taste the
crisp air that will
fill our lungs and only
one word will leave our
cracked lips,
freedom.
And we shall
thrive again in
this living hell in
which we must endure!
Freedom I say! Freedom
From the horrors I have seen
And experienced!
Freedom.

He was born a boy
who knew he belonged
who felt safe at home and
who earned his way at school
He grew into a man
who knew where to walk
who felt harmonized
who earned his place among friends.
He was an untouched innocent
who never knew death
who never felt the animalistic actions of war and
who never earned respect from a captain
He matured into a soldier
who will always know battles
who will never feel safe again and
who has earned his right as a warrior.
He’s a transformed man
who will carry every death
who will waste away inside and
who will be destroyed before it all ends.
*Paul Baumer

The Pressure of the water
Is almost too much to bare.
The weight that is crushing me
Makes me tarnish and wear.

Waves crash above me --
Remember the forgotten.
The air that folds under waves --
A tease -- makes my soul rotten.

I will crave the oxygen
That I know is sweet relief.
But I am too far under --
Bottom -- to swim through grief.

But, like all worldly problems,
They are resolved by autumn.
I'm carried from the water --
Away from the bottom.

But, like it is expected,
It stays with me.
I hold the water -- Pressure --
With me when I am "free".

When the sun rises, the shadows come out. They stretch
over the dewed grass and up the brick walls. They hide
from the light that only makes them stronger.
Without light, there would be no shadows.
We think we can destroy them, using our
light. But really, they’re always there,
scattered, stretched, faded, on the
turf of the football field. My
shadow is no different. It
lurks behind me when
I walk to the bus stop.
It stretches over the
uneven sidewalk and
into the tar-spotted street.
Even at school, where the light
shines from the ceiling. It sits quietly
under my desk. Or when I perform, and the light
shine in front of me, it will dance with me, a secret duet.

I'm not crazy,
I swear.
You can't hear the voice?
The little bird that sits
On my shoulder and whispers
In my ear?
No?
That is your loss.
My voice tells me things
You can not imagine.
He whispers poems to me,
And sings lullabies to me,
And holds my hand when
I am scared.
But I'm not scared,
Not when he's whispering to me.
So I'm not crazy,
I swear.
My imagination is just too much
And needs to be expressed -- out --
Not kept inside because of fear.
You fear for me?
I fear for you
You have never known his whisper,
Or his music.
And you shall live hollow,
Because you have never known him --
Him who is your Genius.

I put my ear up to the glass,
And hear white noise.
I can see your lips moving,
And hear white noise.
You’re so close, yet so far,
On the other side of the glass.
Your eyes look at me, and see nothing,
On the other side of the glass.
I want to break through,
And feel your skin, your arms; your lips.
I need to break this barrier
And feel you.

I reach for you,
But the glass is cold.
I remember your warmth,
But the glass is cold.
Do you not see me now that
The window has fogged?
Can you see my tears even though
The window has fogged?
I want to wipe away this steam
And feel our connection again.
I need to wipe this veil of questions
And feel you.

Do you hear that
Pounding sound?
Is that you, beating on the glass and making a
Pounding sound?
Is that you becoming a
Clear image?
Are you wiping away the steam for a
Clear image?
Do I have the strength, to wipe away the steam
And feel vulnerable with you?
Lend me your courage to break this glass
And feel you.

When you sleep tonight
listen for music.
If you're in a dream,
listen for his voice.
He is always there,
crafting beautiful
jewels of great wisdom.
Close your eyes and look
for him, my dear child.
He has not left you.
This I promise you.
You'll be safe with him,
This I swear to you.
Now close your eyes, dear
Listen for music
Feel him hold you close.

Blackness tugs at the edge of my vision.
Everything is blurry and all I see is a man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
He scares me, with his yelling.
I look around, searching for something,
But finding nothing.
I blink and I’m in a meadow,
Blurry images of grass and trees.
Beautiful flowers nuzzle up against me,
Hugging me and filling me with warmth.
I see him again.
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I’m surprised to see him, and hear his yelling.
I look away from him, and ignore his voice,
And I feel pain in my ankle.
I look down to see snakes where
The flowers once grew.
I fell, away from the snakes and the man,
And into a room with you.
You hold me tight, and whisper things to me.
I look over your shoulder and see the man,
He’s yelling at me, telling me to run.
I pull away from you, listening to his yelling,
And see you’ve changed.
A pronged tongue pokes from fanged teeth,
And your kind eyes are slit green daggers.
I turn and run
Away from you and to the yelling man.
He leads me to a meadow where
Flowers don’t bite.
I asked him his name, but he refused to answer,
Just reassuring me that I’d be safe with him.
I wake with a warm feeling, and a clear head.
I forgot his face, the story, the why
But I remember the warmth and the safety.

My brow curly angel
my Lillian
with eyes that shine like
the first star in twilight.
My blond sweetheart
my Liam
with eyes that burn like
a sunrise on a winter day

They sit, with unseen bond,
and watch as lights flicker
and reflect on their eyes.
“Go! Diego Go!” Liam bounces.
Lillian’s lavish lashes fall, lackadaisical
she holds her doll and recites
“Mommy made me mash my M&Ms;”

Liam can feel the bond, weakened,
and teases her, lovingly,
“The lily-licking frog licked Lillian!”
she squeals and holds her doll tight
Frightened, he drives his sister out.

I smile, and hold them both,
Lillian’s escape postponed.
Liam falls into me,
but my angel,
she slips away
smiling
laughing
and then it hits.

Water trickles down my cheeks,
salty with defeat,
as we dress in black.
I have failed, my angel,
and I have lost you,
Forever.

I long for your Love
your Warm giggle
your Bright eyes.
My hope for happiness
is Shattered as you
fall
out of reach
and out of sight.

Why hadn't I insisted?
Why didn't I keep you safe?
Now my sweetheart is
lost, connection broken,
he watches his sister
disappear under Earth.

That morning of the 14th, my daddy woke me up.
It was a rushed “Good Morning,”
Because he was going to be late to work.
He made sure I was dressed, with backpack in hand,
And stumbled me to the bus stop.
The bus was late, that Friday morning.
I wished it would hurry,
Daddy is getting angry.
When the bus rolled down the street,
Daddy kissed me hurriedly on the cheek.
I climbed aboard and watched him drive away,
A growing tightness in my chest.
I looked down, red blossoming in my small chest,
And cried.
The pain was nothing like falling from my bike,
Or getting pricked by scissors.
It was like watching my daddy drive away,
Or seeing him cry.
It was like watching him come home without me,
Or seeing him lock my door.
It was like watching him curse himself,
For that rushed “Good Morning.”