Letter: To Lone Child

The rivers seem to never stop
There’s a storm a churnin in your heart
And all you have left is your self

Your falling down can’t get up
always thristin with a broken cup
And all you have left is yourself

No, matter what you try to say
You fellow man turns away
They won’t listen to what they don’t understand
But I am here so talk to me.


Wipe the tears slip into night
Follow the internal light
And you’ll see that it’s alright

Rise from your former ash
Resist the urge to look back
Because kid it’s going to be alright


No matter what you try to say
You fellow man turns away
They won’t listen to what they don’t understand
But I am here so talk to me.

Time plays a complex hand
It ponders ‘fore exposing stance
But kid it’s going to be alright.

I called you...
But you didn't pick up
I sent signals...
But you didn't pick up
I loved you...
But you didn't pick up
You broke me...
But I picked myself up

Turning on the T.V, you see a beautiful woman
Standing up, proud and straight.
You look down at your not-so-perfect self,
And your heart fills with hate.

You’re not like that woman,
But you’re beautiful just the same.
You have beauty where she doesn’t
Internal beauty is what you can claim.

If only you could see it,
You’d know your beauty too.
Unfortunately, society has brainwashed us
Into not loving people like you.

If I could change the world
We wouldn’t have to have waists of a centigram.
And I’d have the cute guys love me
For who I am- not what I am.

So look at yourself,
You’re beautiful just like me.
Loving yourself is the right path;
Confidence is the key.

My mind is like abstract art tinted in many colors of red,
like my heart blew apart, splintering, puncturing now I am dead,
like horrid lamentation smeared with tears of the barely alive,
like a hungry nation spoon fed to think they can no longer strive,
like a child who attempts jumping the hurdles but ends up hurt,
like a man who repents only to realize he never got burnt.

The masks all burned by the chipped paint backdoor
Pick her up from the floor where the rug is a solace
She'll never be as old as the men she loves
Where she goes to secret clubs in order to find love
the black dress torn

And they all stood motionless on the bridge on the river
Feeling the world move below them
(and the turquoise fish glimmer, sun streaked, reflective beauty)
as some wild cosmic dance spins onwards
in the blackness of something or nothing

Where are your moonlight serenades now
or when do your flowers run dry
and how did you survive on these streets
as all these monsters pass by?

Dear Writers,

Water the page with thoughts and observe the roses which root and flourish.

I practice origami with the universe.
The corners kiss before their bodies are pressed closer together.
Stars overheat and I, I catch the supernova before it fades like the memory of yesterday's events.