I’ve spent my life hiding
a part of myself
the most beautiful part
from the world

Be it self doubt
or insecurities
that pull me down
like an anchor
in rough oceans
of anxieties

But the waters
have calmed
I can see now
what I could not before

We are all beautiful
especially
when we stop hiding
who we truly are

I feel as if I found myself
while drowning out at sea
the waves crashing in on me

I pulled myself
up from the depths
by lifting myself up
shredding the weight
of my insecurities
all of my faults
sinking beneath me
embracing all of my qualities
fair and flaw

I will sail on the sea
proudly in the winds
enjoying the salty breeze
filling my lungs
Life
I am finally
enjoying life

Dreams
will find you
in the night.
in a helpless,
hopeful state,
open to a whole
other world
where anything
is conceivable.

Dreams
are just small blips
of your synapses,
quick flashes
that seems to last
for hours.
Entire stories
played in your mind
with no real
perception of time.

Dreams
are precious gems
to be cherished
or elaborate caves
to be explored,
you have no clue
where the next turn
make take you.

Dreams
are powerful,
and moving
like a wave
crashing through
your subconscious.
They can change
your life
with visions
of a brighter day
on the horizon.

You are like a firefly
guiding me through the dark
with your instantaneous flickering.

My firefly
leading me into the unknown
I will follow you always.

But will you always be there
flickering away?
What if you're light starts to fade?

What happens if you get too far ahead
and I lose you in the darkness?
Will you find me again?

What happens if the flickering ceases
slowly fading away?
What will I do then?

Whispers
I hear them in the night
they plague me

They are too quiet to hear actual words
they seem muffled somehow
as if speaking through a wall
but I know it's someone's voice
not simply the wind whispering through the trees

I lie awake
for hours
trying to interpret
the whispering into words
something I can understand

I haven't slept in weeks now
the mumbling
it never goes away
I think I can tell what they're saying now
or maybe I'm imagining it
I don't really care
it makes me feel better

The voices they talk for hours
and it's terribly annoying
to have to hear a conversation
as if they're in another room
muffled as they are
I wish they'd go away
just shut up
I'm so tired

Last night the voices called to me
they wanted me to come with them
though I'm not exactly sure where
if they don't stop soon I might go
maybe if I give them what they want
they'll finally let me sleep

Sleep
the most sleep I've had in weeks
was an hour this morning at the coffee shop
but then I heard the voices again
I think they're following me now
they don't seem to want to leave me alone

The voices didn't come last night
and you'd think I slept soundly for hours
but no, I lay waiting
waiting for them to start
as I knew they would
and I laid there
in the silence
only to be disappointed
disappointed?
was I actually disappointed?
maybe I was
it was rather unnerving
not knowing where the voices went
I've grown rather accustomed to them

They came back again
I don't know where they were that night
but nor do I care
they are even louder now
but still muffled
and they just can't keep quiet
not for a single minute

I lay awake just staring at the ceiling
listening to them argue
to them calling to me
willing me to come with them

This past night all they did was shout
as if I couldn't hear them before
just this incessant screaming
I can't take it anymore
I think I may just do as they please

I've devised a plan
that will get rid of the voices forever
that will stop their endless conversations
that plague me in the darkness
a way that I can sleep forever
with no interruptions

I made all the preparations
planned it to the t
the voices were not there to interrupt
no one intervened
though I felt as If I was being watched
someone anxiously looking on
as if waiting for something big
exciting
though I'm not sure what's so exciting about me
I don't think the mentally unstable are very entertaining
but then again maybe they are
I don't think I ever knew a crazy person besides myself
I mean that's the only way to explain the voices isn't it
they can't be real can they?
I hope not
they're all in my head
and now I'm getting rid of them
with my plan remember?
a way to force to voices from my skull
even when they aren't talking I hear them
their voices echoing in my head
bouncing around as if I have nothing more important to think of
I can't wait for that eternal peace

So my plan failed
miserably
the voices got as they wanted
some how I managed to get stuck with them
in the depths of eternity
however long that may really be
I hope not too long
these voices never shut up
and now they are crystal clear
for I am with them now
I am one of them
I am the voice that will plague you in the night
that will drive you to insanity
the voice that will cause your demise

My Favorite time of day
is actually at night.
It’s those loving moments
just before sleep,
him coiled around my body.

I cherish those last grasps at waking life.
The way his body fits to mine
so perfectly, so kind.
Our skin barely brushing
but it’s calming none the less.

I love hearing his voice
hushed and full of sleep
whispering his love for me
before we both drift off.
The words come

with a familiar grace
I have only found with him.
The sound of his shallow breaths
lull me to sleep
like a soothing summer breeze.

Those are the moments
that make the bad days alright,
that make everything worth while,
that make night
my favorite time of day.

He took a picture the other day
of our hands clasped together,
him holding on
for what seemed to be dear life,
my bracelets criss crossed carelessly at my wrist
and all you can see of my tattoo
in the beautiful script that he always caressed:
“there’s nothing”.

The grass is always greener
on the other side
of a twenty six foot tall
security wall.

A wall of hate
and separation,
built in fear
of hostile infiltrations.

Walls like this
weren’t meant to last
as we have learned
from the past.

Graced with graffiti,
the art of outrage.
Protesting politics
and this man made cage.

An outlaw by choice
painting in protest,
yet even in fame
he hides for fear of arrest.

He created art
on the wall
to attest
it’s inevitable fall.

Like windows
to a better world
as if the wall
had become unfurled.

It showed of paradise
and bluer skies,
children waiting
with hopeful eyes.

Hope for change
and a new start,
as if things could be different
because of some art.

I keep a box under my bed
that's filled with thoughts all from my head.
It's small and square and nothing new,
just dreams of things I'd like to do.

It's filled with notes
and little scribbles,
just things I wrote
all mindless dribble.

One day I'll die and leave behind
the box of thoughts all from my mind.

And the fish they all continue swimming
even though the water is all now gone.
And fisherman faithfully keep fishing
despite the fact that everything is wrong.
And somehow the plants they keep on growing
although the sun has not been out to shine.
The farmers continue their harvesting
as if they think everything is just fine.
All the wolves they never cease their howling,
but the moon out of sight, is new tonight.
The hunters sleep, waiting to go prowling
unaware of things not being right
The world flips us upside down and around
and sanity is nowhere to be found.

Sneaking through
the cracks of insecurity

it plants itself,
like a seed
in your mind.
It is a ****

sprouting
from your fears,
all of your uncertainties
throughout the years.

It roots itself
inside your mentality
and preys on thoughts
that distort your reality.

It courses its way
through your nerves
like thorny vines
crippling your reserves.

It flourishes
at the first signs of defeat
and suffocating you
like the summer heat.  

And like any ****
it will grow and spread,
with its vines entangled
inside your head,

twisting a labyrinth
of complicated confusion
that leads to apprehension
and misguided conclusions.

They warned me
it was a death trap.
They told me
it would be my demise.
  
That Little *******.
That beautiful,
yet powerful,
sleek, silver Spyder.

It was so ****.
The rev of the engine.
The way it purred
as we sped along. 
 
If only we were more
than just a glare along the highway.
The sun bouncing brilliantly
off the hood.
 
We would have won
so many races.
We were so fast. 
Cruising down 466.

We would have been great,
the two of us:
‘The Little *******
and James Dean.’