I’m a poet!
Do I know it? 
Yes I think so.
I know three lines, one stanza 
Is a haiku.

I’m a poet, right?
I write about feelings, death, love 
And all that ****!

I’m a poet, I think?
Does this have to rhyme?
I want to rap,
But I’m white, but one of those only comes out once in a blue night.

I’m a poet, I know,
Because I think words are more than gold,
A projection of the soul,
They can create a world far from our own.

I’m a poet, perhaps;
Gone have the days of running laps,
These words are coming too fast,
I’m using rhyme again, **** this relapse.

I was a poet, but weren’t we all?
What memories will dry up on that shore before,
I dive into the stars, bypass mars,
Wake from that reality, 
And dream of what was.

~ d.a

Darling, you’re worth more.

Don’t carry your life like a burden,
someday, someone, somewhere
will love you enough to see
the beauty of your excitement at
all the little things your eyes catches;
they’ll love you enough to travel
across the state just to see you at 2am
and cradle you on your sad days, crying
in bed and you’ll get back every effort
you bring forth to others.
Someday, some time, some where,
you’ll wake up and realise
that your life is much more beautiful
than your cold self on your death bed.

When I was younger, commercials told me that depression hurt, and I had no idea what that meant. Flowers were flowers and the sun tanned my skin and peach tea ran through my veins and the world produced enough magic for me to be content.

How I ended up on my bathroom floor with a knife is a story for after my eulogy. Do not mention how the flowers died, how the sun burned my skin, or how the world is the worst it has ever been.  

Suddenly, I was mocked by every living thing on this planet. They sighed “you do not live.” Every frown was another twist of the barbed wire tangled up in my bones that clicked toward the destruction of my free will and the caging of my heart, brittle and broken and bruised and more than ready to stop its frail beating.

I used to want. Want to lap up the planet like a thirsty dog, satiated by the sanguine hearts that care for the earth, I wanted to glide through every part of history with my eyes wide open with a ribcage breathing energy and light, strength and confidence.

And here I am.

I wonder if any of it was real at all. Until I find out, I’ll make myself a part of history today. May you forever remember the pigment of my eyes when I cried from the joy of the moment.

This is the end of the road.



~d.a