You see these wings?
They’re my wings.

I didn’t paint them on my eyes,
strap them on for a pageant, play, or Halloween night
I didn’t tattoo them on the small of my back
to feel the sting of satisfaction of an image I can’t see

My wings,
are right between my shoulder blades
with spreading feathers like a warm hug after a long winter’s day
when you come home to the one that loves you
and they stoke the fire and stroke your cheeks
until they fall asleep at your feet

My wings,
have tips that stretch around the world,
brushing the cheeks of crying children
lifting the chins of the concerned, confused mothers
and smoothing the hair of the disheveled, drowning fathers

And it breaks my heart that
my wings,
have always been there
from the moment I clutched the bars of my crib
screaming my mother’s name in desperation
to the moment I released her hand
in a promise to be home at midnight
on my first date with a boy
who had smiled at me in Spanish class

And my wings,
were here when the same boys that smiled
turned to a new wind,
and took flight without me
My wings,
were here every single day I couldn’t roll out of bed
couldn’t make it on time
couldn’t call my mama back
and couldn’t find my **** way home

My wings,
have been waiting
for me to finally believe
that they’ve always been there,
and when the world feels like too much

my wings,
*wake up.

I have seen couples,
So far from each—
Other, on a platform,
Waiting for the next train,
Never touching, yet how
They ****** their mobile
Devices, how softly, sweet,
Without guile nor agenda
They swipe the glass—
As it swoons back in return
With blue lights and alerts,
So dearly needed and answers,
In way words for the machines
Of flesh and the ghost within,
With such personal aplomb
In real notifications of text
And instant message.

Pick a note
Any note
Watch it tremble
Shiver like a songbird’s wings

Wailing through your fingers
An echo of your pick
Crashing through the realms
Of the different notes to choose

Take it down
Pull it up
And sing
Sing like a shivering string

I don't know why I can't write anything today.
I am so ******* empty but my mind keeps slipping back to
you,
and I hate myself with a fervor
unmatched by any passion I've felt before and that is
terrifying.
You aren't allowed to leave without saying
you'll come back,
you aren't allowed to love her without killing your love for me first.
Why do you do this to me?
Why do I do this to myself?
Honestly, you're innocent but
I need somewhere to place the guilt other than
myself
because my arms are full and
I cannot carry anymore.
I haven't seen you in weeks.
We used to talk,
you used to love me,
now do you even ******* care?
Do you ever think of me anymore?
Because I think about you all the time.
You are the reason I've been hungover the past two days,
you are the reason my friends are worried about me,
you are the reason I can't turn in any of the poems I write to my English teacher.
I do not love you like you want me to,
at least I don't think I do,
but I do love you,
oh god I do,
but what the hell does that even mean? All I know is
today I felt like crying because of all the things you've said to me
and the only thing I knew would make it better would be if
you said my name.
You didn't.

You caught me in a webb from the first day we met.
I knew I wanted to know you more,
Although unsure of what more meant.
Intrigued by your quirky sense of humor,
Those soft caring eyes I could swim in for days.
That smile melted my heart & swept me away.
I feel safe when I'm with you as though I'm finally home.
Your little imperfections are what make you beautiful,
I'll promise to never mould or change you.
This is a little piece of me,
To show what you mean to me.
I give you my locket & key.

He gave me his
jacket
and it smelled like
him and smoke
and I knew why
but I wore it anyway.

The day he
disappeared
it was cold outside so
I wore his jacket
and
wiped my nose on the sleeves.

We got the call from the
psych ward
three days later and I couldn't
see him
or
hold him
so I buried my face in his jacket
even though it smelled like smoke
and I knew why.

I kept it
stuffed in the corner between
the wall and my bed
so on the nights when I
missed him too much to sleep
I could wrap myself in it
even though
it didn't smell like him anymore.

When he came back
a month later
and I saw him in
a crowded hallway
he looked at me and
smiled
when he noticed I was wearing
his jacket
and he
hugged me
so it smelled like him again.

I still
wear his jacket
when I can't sleep at night.

I hope you
remember
that
somewhere
along
the
lines,

I  
was
there.

The grief will lessen,
the pain become
a mild ache, some said,
after the death
and the son dead.

Somewhat
like telling
someone
who is drowning
the substance
of water.

I cannot
measure out
the length of time
of my grief,
or how deep
the pain goes
by plunging a knife
into the wound
as if seeing
like some cake
or meat
if it is cooked.

I see each
morning dawn
shadowy,
as if ghosts
walk through
or clouds mask
what little light
I see or catch
or gone out
like puffed
out match

Even in silence
I sense his
being there
in the cool
morning air;
feel the loss
like sand
through fingers,
although his image
ghostlike lingers.

And at close of day,
when moon's
kingdom comes,
stars tell lies
by being there
when maybe
long ago they
burnt out
or were lost.

And you,
my son,
that last talk
we had,
mundane,
yet real,
tangible,
real then
as now the pain.

Write because...

your thoughts
                                are more precious
                                than the finest golds.
your imagination
                                is more vivid than
                                your most treasured
                                childhood memory.
your creativity
                                is more boundless
                                than the ends of
                                the earth.
your opinions
                                are more valued
                                than you may think.
your feelings
                                are more valid
                                than you've been told.

And most importantly write because...
                        W  o  r  d  s     a  r  e    p  o  w  e  r  f  u  l.

*"Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts." -Patrick Rothfuss