Someday you’ll love you.
From the sparkle in your eye,
To the pitch of your laugh,
Even the color of your hair.

You will love every part,
From every wrinkle,
To every crinkle,
Every part of you.

But they will try to tear you down,
To make you frown,
To make you think you’re not worth it.

But darling you listen to me.

From the way you walk,
To the way you talk,
You will be mocked,
But don’t you listen.

From your weight,
To your height,
You are all wonderful to me.

Maybe one day you’ll see,
The beauty I see.
The way you were made,
So beautifully.

But until then,
Do not forget,
On how true beauty,
Comes from within.

When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
Sometimes the things she says are kind:
a balm at the end of a long day
of being grown-up and efficient and all together.

Sometimes the night says,
"You can put the mask down now."
Sometimes bravery is just
sitting in the silence
and letting your own thoughts
run freely into the space.

Other times, she tells you things you need to hear,
whether or not they are easy to swallow.
And that's okay too.
One of the best things about night
is the space: there is more than enough space
to catch all the truth, clamoring for your attention
to arrange all your captive thoughts in neat little lines
here on the wall of your room.
You turn them over now in your fingers,
examine all their sides--the good and the ugly.

What could you have done differently?
How can you do better when the dawn comes?

I used to say that everything looks better
in the morning light.
I used to say, "Let's wait until
the sun comes back up. Then maybe
none of these things will
bruise us as much."

But I think now, midnight and dawn are
two sides of the same coin.
Where the morning sweeps you up in a rush,
the night pulls at your shoes and glues you to the floor.
She says, "Wait."
She says, "Listen."
"Here are all the important things you missed today. You will need them for tomorrow."

When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
She gives you space. She gives you truth.

And the morning? Well—the morning—She sings.
I suppose this is why things look different
during both times of the day.
One is pinpoint clarity,
and the other—the hope that follows
the mercies we need
embedded in gentle sunlight.

Both.
Both are good.

my hands are covered
in scrapes and calluses
three week old blisters turned
gray with scabs and dirt

i paint my face on bravely
every morning and grind
the glitter into my skin
with a smile until i get home

and can let my cheeks begin
to droop and the hateful
thoughts i push down all day
begin to tumble out

i spend all day saying sorry
for things that aren’t my fault
and try to make
strangers laugh

and i work
and hustle
and sleep
and work

listen to the voices
tell me i’m not
trying
hard enough

and sleep
and hustle
and work
and sleep

and keep myself fighting
for something
but i don’t know yet
what that something is

sometimes at the end of
another day when my
body melts into bed
the glitter washes off
with tears

and the fear
pins me down
so i grit my teeth
shut my eyes and sleep

then i get up
pour another
cup of coffee
and just
keep
moving

The whispers
The laughs
The names
The jokes
The speculations and guesses
They talk about you
They are shocked when you speak
They think you are weird
For being quiet, kept to yourself
The lockers talk
Earbuds in
Head down
Nose in a book
Mad face drawn
It works, they stay away
They don’t approach
Ignoring the quiet judgment
You are almost there
To the peaceful relief of the quiet corner in the library
Where nobody goes
The rows of books, other lives you get to live
Because you would rather live in those than your own
People talk
You ignore it
You are used to doing so
You don’t care anymore because
You realized a while ago that
Sometimes it could be a luxury
To be a nobody.

I try to forget your name,
But I keep seeing it in lightning
And I hear it in the rain.
I tried to scream
like thunder,
crying for you to stay,
But the words
fall out my mouth
like leaves,
And the wind
only blows them away.

What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these gimmicks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately
                  Pray

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unread, even abhorred

Why?

Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way

Line
After line
Of synonyms
          over
               and
                    over
                         and
                              over
                                   again

-----

What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?

The sun feels warm and tingling from its Bright Ways
Waves of remembrance of the day still proceeding
Create a smile on this groggy and weary  Face
A soul which has been idle and worn
Becoming fluid with energy and schemes
Entertaining itself with creative imagination
stares into my empathic senses
I need never try to scientifically provide anyone a reality
conforming explanation.
The summer air sneaks through our sliding glass door escape
to an eight-floor deck
If I were able to fly, like Superman, I would now be in Japan.
South Korea
Enjoying the Asian music, company, and people
Two cultures better becoming acquainted with each other
A heart longing to reach out to those I sense lost
through my third eye view
Even though the still of each warm Summer or any Season's Portions of time Called "Night"
One shall never be alone... I do see you...
As the Sun has signaled the inner me that now is an ignited flame
roaring brightly, onward, through the upcoming night.

He loves me, he loves me not
We're meant to be, or so I thought
My heart is broken, the pain is real
I long for peace, from all I feel

I fake a smile, so no one knows
I mimic strength, lest weakness shows
I refuse surrender, I stand and fight
I must succeed, and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart, and I can breathe again

Minutes into hours, hours into days
The love I held so tightly, starts to fade away
The pain begins to lessen, the tears no longer fall
Seemed misery was forever but it's not that way at all

Those nights you haunt my dreams
Are now few and far between
When memories overtake me, I know I'll be alright
I know now what to do....and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart and I can breathe again
Yes, I can breathe again.

Some died in the Spring;
and some by the river, deep
in Winter beneath a bridge.
Some died alone by a tree
behind a repossessed house;
and some with their cats
at home, quiet as a mouse.
Some died reading bills
that come in the mail;
and some reading the part
number, reaching for a fan
belt hanging on a nail.
Some died with a flyswatter
in hand, toilet paper in a screen
door, dead flies on the floor;
and some like heat lightning,
fast as a sick baby’s breath.
Some died without a warm, caring
woman’s hand on a forehead;
and some sharing a last cigarette.
She, my old lover who loved danger,
died on the side of the road
in the arms of a stranger.

i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.