Look here get this
Look there get that
Look at it and it looks you back
Look for it and it looks you blind

that everything you see
you had to put it there to find

be made to choice given
or create one to have

Is a
way back

to who
you
really are

Be the feeling
of an answer

not
the urgency
of a question

as you hold your lack against them

You are not doing
as I expect of you and I feel bad

please could you behave
so I can have a good feeling and blame you

but heaven ignored

as man made mind
creates a hell to heaven
or a heaven to hell

I need to tell you the truth
Not lie nor give you an excuse
I have a crush on you babe
But fear your love, that it’s fake
Situation so repulsive
Yeah, heart has me chasing after toxic

Afraid to ask, but I wanna say...
I want you bad & I can’t no longer wait.
You’re making me vulnerable right now
It’s everything I’ve always want
You’re breaking my heart, walls burning down
It’s everything I’ve never want

Dying flower, dying flower
Dying flower, dying, dying dying
Dying flower, dying flower
Dying flower, dying, dying, dying

When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.

The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.