there are two types of sadness

there’s the kind of sadness
we ignore and
try to get rid of it
by finding new things to do
or we find someone to talk to
by blatantly avoiding any type of conversation
about feeling sad
about having any feelings at all
and then there’s that kind of sadness
that takes over
and it consumes any activity we do
we know it’s there
and there’s no possible way to avoid it
so we feed it exactly what it wants
it craves the sad music
it craves the isolation
it craves the anxiousness
and the sadness comes storming in
it has no manners
here we are calling sadness, an “it”
when all it is
is a feeling
that most people
call home

Who dares **** a child
by burning their yellow?

It shivers and weeps,
and in oblivion it sleeps

Enemy
within
Empathy
sparked
Compromise
is killing me
Slowly in the dark

“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.

who are you
to stand in my way so steadily
said the woodpecker
to the tree

home
is your
midnight lullaby
dripping like honey
from the back of your throat
and your
anxious tears
dripping like sand
from the top of an hourglass

home
is the
perfume of orange blossoms
passing through my lungs
as we run through the orchard
and the
rotting smell of garbage
passing through the streets
as we climb onto the school bus

home
is the
sweet taste of dates
mixed with sugary syrup
kneaded into perfect pastries
and the
metallic taste in your mouth
mixed with the guilt in my stomach
kneaded into a sticky dough

home
is the
falling of ocean waves
over our heads
as we scream-laugh through the water
and the
falling of bombs
over our city
as we sit together in silence

oh
how I wish
I could simply return
home
but
home
no longer exists
because home is
you

stillness . . .
              then    
                      it
                        falls
         ­                 like
                           a
                       gossamer  
                  feather
                 from
                     a
                        fairy
       ­                      tern
                               in
                              a
                         waking
                   dream
                 slowly
                  finding
                      its
                         grave
                              on
                                  the
                        ­               forest
                                               floor
                                                       next­ to
                                                              ­     its
                                                                ­      dead
                                                      ­                  brothers . . .
                                                                      this
                                                            ­   last
                                                         leaf
                                                         ­    of
                                                                   autumn . . .
                                                                ­                            alone
                         yet surroundedd with the corpsess of fallen comrads

I am untouchable, right?
You don't want to touch me
Be near me
I'm so ugly

An outcast, I gripe
Sparkles of dust
Flying aimlessly
Towards the void

I disgust, don't I?
An abomination in flesh
A ***** -inducing nauseating pile of thrash
I'm nothing to you
You are nothing to me

So you fear I'll give you the disease
Honey, there's no disease worse than the one that is rotting your brain
To you
I'm dispensable
An object
A slave

So you won't touch me
But you want me clean your dirt, your shame, your filth
For they would make your hands *****
My hands, what hands?
I'm subhuman ******‌, right!
They don't matter
Nothing matters

So you won't touch me?
That's fine
I DON'T WANT TO BE TOUCHED BY YOU
NOT IN A MILLION YEARS
YOU DISGUST ME