I don't know what
I want to do with
this life I've been handed down
through generations
of smiles and laughs and love.
I don't know how
I'm supposed to be
grateful for the heart
that beats in my chest each day,
when I don't know
how to use it.
I don't know when
I'm going to know these things.
I don't know a lot.

I am the bitterness of ***** streaming down your neck,
and you are the sweetness of caramel. Smooth, sultry,
enticing.
I am black coffee on a stark, bleak Autumn-Winter morning,
frowning faces and angry remarks lingering on the tips
of tainted tongues, broken glass and empty bottles
clinking quietly on a rickety shelf,
ready to crash down and fall.
You are camomile tea on a Spring evening, smiling, sipping,
loving comments whispered in the ear of someone you love,
something whole and full, ready to cushion the fall
of someone broken.
You are much more than you think you are,
and you make me more than just bitter and broken.