I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling wondering why I can not turn my thoughts off.
Before my eyes, the  ceiling comes to life playing out scenes from  my minds recollections. Is this a dream or am I awake. I know I remember doing these things that are unraveling before my eyes, only In these images I do things differently. Could this be my conscious telling me where I went wrong or is my brain playing tricks on me.  I wish I could close my eyes and this movie would end but even with eyes closed the story unfolds.  It is hard to differ between reality and fantasy. Which is real and what is the moral to this story.  Help me understand

Sext: listen to our song and feel your heart crumble in your chest

She was beautiful in the destroying an entire city but illuminating the entire sky kind of way.

It was like we were wrenched from Morpheus' grasp and shaken, until our eyes adjusted to the harsh light and our bones stopped their clattering. We make like tea bags and steep in hot water, letting the dregs of the past day settle at our feet.

We drag our feet through the quicksand pavement and trudge through the black-tar roads to work. War is rampant in the world and in people's hearts, we see murders on screen and deceit in the streets, we're observers to the horrors of humanity. All we can do is watch with pained eyes.

Our minds are barraged with arguments and advertisements, ethics have been defenestrated, our worries overpopulated, our patience stretched thin and beaten cacophonously. Our consciousness is beaten down with pessimism, our thoughts devoid of hope.

Our souls weep at the state of things, the martyrs gather in drones at St. Peter's gates. We do good only so people will be good to us, we greet each other with half-smiles, and half-truths. At the end of the day we drag home, our consciences heavy with the burden thrown upon us.

But we meet again, we kiss, we embrace, and we join hands and strip ourselves of these mundane garments, we’re a mass of hands and skin and long sighs and worn-out smiles,

and with tired eyes, tired minds, tired souls, we slept.

Pressure, deadlines,
Trauma and stress,
Give me the weight of the world,
And I will carry it.

But as strong as I am,
I'm even more weak.
My strength is all surface,
But my weakness runs deep.

Inside I'm so fragile,
So please be aware,
Like glass, I break easily,
So handle with care.

Give me impossible jobs,
And I will fight through them all,
But if you throw a sharp word,
I will crumble and fall.

I'm strong but so weak,
I'm fragile, hard to reach,
My strength is thin, my weakness deep,
So please break in, but don't break me.

Being a writer
Is not a part-time job,
Like being a nurse
Or a teacher:
Where clocking in
And out
Is as simple
As lifting and putting down
A pen.

No,
Writers have words
Flowing though their veins;
Poignant thoughts and emotions
Shape and reshape themselves
Into poems in the writer's mind
Almost by instinct.

But
Do not be fooled:
The writer's world
Is no paradise:
Thoughts tug at our brains
In the middle of the night,
Like a child pulling
At its mother's coat
Beckoning us to the page
Where finally we free the thoughts
That have been held captive.

And finally with sleepy,
Satisfied eyes,
We place the final fullstop
On our latest masterpiece
.

I dreamed about you for what
May have been the first time.
You were explaining something
To me, preparing to leave.
I held you close against me,
And we played footsie.

I wrote a song and a poem.
I told my brother Jordan
That it was unlike
Anything I've ever written.
How proud of it I was.

You hoped for a new life
Outside of Florida.
Now you have it.

I never wanted
You to leave.
I couldn't do anything  
To stop you, or
Persuade you to stay.

You said we should
Stay in touch
Through letters.
The birthday card
You sent me last year
Is in my drawer, still.

I was a companion,
And a lousy mate,
Not a boyfriend.
I could have been.

I could have
Taken that title.
We could have
Played the dating
Game together.
We could have
Risked losing.

I chose to wait for a
More ideal candidate.
She never arrived,
As far as I know.

We had a few
Heated arguments.
The last stemmed
From my ignorance
In an area I believed
I should have been
Knowledgeable in.

I have a tendency
To be an ignorant
Know it all,
To have difficulty
With simple things.

You wanted to
Meet my grandma,
and I was afraid that
It would not go well,
Mainly due to the
Color of your skin.

Your mother encouraged
Me to talk to her about it,
To divulge to her what
Your friendship meant to me.

I decided against it.
At least you briefly
Met my mother who
You thought was nice.

I was angry when
You broke undesirable
News to me, in spite of it,
I would have never
Abandoned our friendship.

Nearly two years later,
And I still have
To be informed,
It's been long overdue.
I know I've already
Said this before,
But I will be soon.

I don't know if you'll ever read this,
And I don't know if I'll ever see
Or hear from you again.

You may not have been birthed in the soil,
and granted,
you will not blossom
when spring melts winters wake
but inside of you
grows a thousand gardens
full of exploding stars.
You are of the earth
and your ashes
have been constructed with stardust,
and set free with the wind.
So you may not have a pretty face,
and your body may hold stories
of too many moonless nights alone.
But if you reach inside,
you will find a forest
for a ribcage
and a restless ocean heart.
So don't ever let anyone tell you
you are nothing.
You are a galaxy
holding a million different planets,
and my dear,
that is not nothing.