The mirror is not my friend today
It has pilfered my youth
what little beauty I possessed
now softened or erased
by time the healer
time the thief

Raw moments
brand my face
with unedited lines
like pillow creases
that will never fade
from my skin

My eyes are circled black
lids stone-weighted
by what I cannot
bear to witness
sadness is their color
this day

the mirror is not my friend
it will not lie
somber eye to somber eye
the truth won't be denied
*what we have lost
can never be regained.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

If you're going to love someone, love them completely and madly and give them the entirety of your heart and fill that heart with the true song of love and sew wings on its back and let your love soar freely and bravely and let it block out the sun and  comfort the aches of the moon  and let its every beat lay down a brick to build a road that will out last time itself
Do all of this and more
Otherwise all your "I Love You" 's are nothing more than an empty breath and a shallow action, the poor reading of a fairy tale full of more woe than wonder, more faries of ill intent than dragons of light and hope,  a story destined to end in sobs  and heartache  and tragedy

don't look me in the eyes
it's pretty scary in there,
it's where i keep everything
that's not considered
''acceptable''
all the hate
and all the love
and everything
i'm too scared to say
out loud
so beware
you might find things
that you
don't wanna see

Bought me a subway sandwich today and couldn't help but think subway needs a new spokesperson big time

There may be a heaven
And maybe a hell
But there is one thing
I know **** well;
There are devils around
And they do their worst
To put the working man
Into a poor man’s hearse.
They hate poor people
And kiss the royal ***
Of those who they think
Represents real class.

And real class to devils
Is money beyond belief
So they side with the creeps
That hate welfare and relief.
They know what they are doing
And they do it every time.
They gleefully participate
In global-scale crime.
They pump up bank accounts
Of the obscenely rich
And call the working a man
A loser sonofabitch.

They buy the politicians,
Who are devils themselves,
And push helpful programs
Onto a dusty back shelf.
If it doesn’t make money
For the greedy one percent
Then any such bill proposed
On the floor is never even sent.
So, I do believe in Devils
Not so much of the rest of the book.
If you don’t believe in Devils
Turn around and take a good look.

a place to dream
a place to fly
are
the
only
silent
spaces
in
the sky

I wanted to be a poet,
so I creased myself into
a bright blue envelope,
addressed to the moon,
and asked the Old Man
His thoughts about how vast
mountain ranges are contained only
by the bones of his ribs.

And He sat quiet, opening His crusted,
ancient mouth only to ask
"Do you love him?"

I stared, doe-eyed and small,
as the stars dimmed their chatter.
My cheeks lit up like comet tails,
but He nodded His head,
shutting the half moons of His eyes,
not asking questions, or rhymes,
or reasons.

"Then why do you stare up
at the stars at night
when the brightest one
lies fast asleep in your bed?"

We walked along the river and approached a small hill.

You reached out for me and offered your help to me, but No.  No thank you
I don't want your hand.

Because me taking your hand is a symbol of trust.

And I don't trust you enough to catch me if I fall.