Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

Satan wears no horns,
nor does he boast a tail or pitchfork.
He wears soft lips
and freckles in his eye.
You share coffee with him
and your secrets, too.
The devil is the easiest creature
to fall in love with.
I once fell victim
to his sweet forked tongue.
He made a home in my heart;
painted the walls
and planted a garden.
He broke all the plates,
all the flowers died,
and he blamed the destruction on me.
(p.)

"Stop trying to force it
Stop trying to control it
Stop trying to make it, break it, or fake it
Stop trying to hold it
Let it go, let it fly, let it be free and if you stop trying...love will always return
You can't control love. You can't force desire. You can't make happen what doesn't want to be made.
Stop trying, start believing...let go."

I can't do drugs like these doctors,
these stone faced professionals,
who take walks in the forrest
like a notch on their belt.
I can't close my eyes like the civilized do
when someplace near them is crying.
Somewhere I heard an old voice say
that our eyes are made for drinking,
that our skin is made for fingernails,
and our tears are meant to sting.
I can't sing when my eyes are open
because of the whirlpool's game.
I can't speak when there's music playing,
but I can scream at the fiery bumblebees
who mistake my ribs for their cage.
Alive, to me, is a word in motion:
our world in motion.
My body emotion
ransacks my neurons
and their electric chair.
I am slain, wide-eyed, at the sight of you breathing;
each wave eroding my shore.

You don't want your burden to drag others down,
So you hid it and try stand strong on your own.

So you created that carefree facade,
But you know it's starting to decay.

Your truth speaks within your lies,
You kept your face hidden but expose your eyes.

You tell them what they want to hear,
Because rejection is what you fear.

You seek approval so pleasing others is your focus,
But the world just seems so hopeless.

So away from everything you shunt,
Because you can't accept what's in front.

Your view is really subjective,
But that's only one perspective.

You are your own friend,
Don't let that relationship end.

I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.

Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.

I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.

Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”

In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.

“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.

“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.

E. E. *******’s “I like my body when it is with your body”. On completion of the reading, I noticed that there is a type of love. Foreign and inaudible to me.
And never have I been loved as such.
He wrote about her. What a treat, to be with someone I inspire so much that he would write such careful words about me.
What is sad?
That I have loved in a similar way. Writing, expressing your beauties.
What is sad?
In turn, I have never been loved and written of. Never felt it. And so I hope someday I am with a someone who not only loves me openly, but secretly, in solitude, with a pen and paper.