Dreams for sale
the problem with dreams is
everyone’s looking to buy
looking to sell

I hate pretentious poets
Bukowski is the man for me
even he was selling a lifestyle
selling an image

there are studies now that show
trauma impacts the speech center of the brain
that’s why speech is “delayed” in some young children
who’ve experienced trauma

the speech wasn’t late
they were made speechless by the cruelty of this life
maybe that’s why so many of us are drawn to poetry and rap
because we can’t speak

these words are not for sale
they are my salvation
I'm not selling a dream here
just spitting out a reality between clenched teeth

Don't tell me to smile,
give me a reason to.
It takes too long
to count all my scars.
I get distracted by the pain
halfway through
and lose count,
like trying to count the stars
in the night sky.
"Not like other girls"
is not a compliment.
It's patriarchy.
I won't clean up after you
or make you a sandwich.
Keep it 50/50,
but don't keep score.
I'm a mystery
you don't have the time
nor the inclination
to figure out.
"Intimidating" says more about you
than it does about me.
I make references
you would get
if you paid attention,
but you can't afford it.
If you buy me flowers
I'll watch them rot in the vase.

What good is art if no one sees it?
Silent, unwitnessed catharsis.
The magic is in the witnessing.
I still write (emo) poems.
I've been too self-conscious to share them
...not even that really.
I've been protecting myself
after many periods of over-sharing.
My poems are a reflection of the deepest part of me,
things I don't speak out loud.
I lost trust.
I lost faith in the world.
In you.
In your ability to witness me,
to make space for me,
to hold me the way I really am.
Yet,
I keep writing,
compelled by the demons in me.

There are days when
the unvoiced pain hits me.
It takes me by surprise,
all the tears I haven't cried.  
How can there be more?
That **** is buried so deep,
unacknowledged,
untended,
unfelt.  
There's a deep dark well of pain in me.
It's waters are silent, vast, unreflecting,
at the bottom of a cold, lightless cavern.
It calls to me,
wants to swallow me whole.
It feeds off my life, my light.
It has ahold of my soul.
The only way to shrink its power
is to drain it,
to cry out the pain,
to speak the pain to life,
so it's no longer caged inside of me,
to name it,
to feel it.
Only then will the dark waters recede
and the threat of drowning be lessened.

I picked wildflowers for you.
I brought you breakfast in bed
on Mother's Day.
I put a bell on your night stand when you were sick,
and brought you whatever you wanted
when you rang it.
I told you that you looked beautiful
and gave you handmade cards.
I told you I loved you.
So many different ways,
I tried to win your approval.

Now I wonder if you look at the magnet I bought you
at a Mother's Day garage sale when I was eight,
which you still keep on the fridge,
a little bear holding a heart that says,
"I love you, Mom,"
and think that it's a lie.
It isn't,
but all those years I spent
desperate for your attention and praise
showed me that you never loved me.
Not for who I really am.
To this day, it's all about you.

It's not fair that a person can grow
strong enough to walk away from abuse
but remain scarred forever,
haunted by it in everything they do,
everywhere they go.
A shadow falls on me,
and darkens all my days.  
There's a hole in my heart
that nothing can fill
where your love was supposed to go.

Today I'm thinking about the ones who didn't make it;
ODs, suicides, and prison.
Some of us made it.
Grooming dogs, working in cubicles, working cash registers,
cleaning cars, fighting rich people's wars, having babies,
bowing down to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against.

My family said I was too good for you,
that I didn't belong with you,
but I did.
They didn't see you
and they didn't see me.
We knew we were different from other kids,
but we didn't know why yet;
carrying a pain so great
when we were so young.
Some of us have been crushed by it.
The secret pain:
family dysfunction,
mental illness,
disability,
addiction,
alcoholism,
abuse,
neglect.

Some of us made it,
but what does it mean?
We've been beaten down by life,
submitting to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against,
we forgot who we are,
but can't forget the ones we've lost.
We don't rage anymore.

People die from this pain.
I don’t wanna be one of them.
The news will say they struggled for 40 years
before they finally gave up.
I’m already more than halfway there.
I wanna live
but I have to take it seriously.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.

I see my reflection
in people OD’ing on pain pills,
injecting an escape.
I see my reflection in people with nooses around their necks,
smiling for the cameras
before they ***** out their own light.
A magic pill
can’t change what I’ve been through.
A noose might end the pain,
if you did it right.
I don’t wanna go that route.
I want to live.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.

I know, I seem fine.
My mom taught me best
how to hide my pain from the world,
to make everyone think I’m OK.
You could have a white picket fence,
dogs, kids, husband, a Porsche,
and a smile for the camera,
and still be dead inside.
I’m not fine.
This pain is my inheritance.
No one can take this pain away,
especially if they don’t want to hear about it.
It’s a lonely road.
I want to live.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.