Being a poet
Changes everything
The way you look and experience
It turns pain into beauty
It breaks down time

It speaks for you when you don't know what to say
It comes at times you can't sit down and write it out
It can keep you awake at night
It may offer you a smile when no one is there to see

Poetry is my outlet
It connects me with others that understand
I have made friends from other lands

When you need someone to talk to
And no one is there
The paper will listen to your pen
And suddenly, you know you aren't that alone again

Poetry has saved me from myself
And it's helped me save others from themselves
It has taught me to take time to really see things
For the truth
To notice the little things that actually matter

Writing poetry is therapy with no judgement
I am writing this to say *thank you

eyes closed
brain quiet
breathing slowed
body relaxed
heart full

These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

I fell out of love with the bottom half of the sky today.
It reminded me of home.
I've grown weak carrying a half splintered heart.
It only floats on the third Wednesday of the month
and holidays that start with "yesterday."
It's all the same.
I'd rather drown.
I think home is where you don't feel so alone.
I've tried, you know.
It's all the same.
I've left two voicemails for whoever lives here now.
I think they're sorry they're so empty.
It's just been so quiet lately.
I am tired,
and so very far from home.

My hands are full of cement,
I do not forget.
Currents run through your fingertips,
I trace honesty along the edges of your ribcage.
Do not look back.
Your head is not a home for liars.
This is meant to be felt.
Come close,
I will show you how much you exist.
I do not forget.

as they come into Silence
I keep a soft focus
on the notes..
For now I am not the notes
I am the Silence
as the notes appear
in sequence and multiplicity
in the Silence..
Silence has taken a brief form
soon to melt
leaving only Silence...

is not the question

when we have thoughts
we think we should put down
make known to the wide world

we often hesitate
ponder if it is worth the while

afraid of being shunned
called names
et cetera
by people who believe they know
how proper writing should be done

welllllllll ….

I believe if one makes all the effort
to tell us how s/he feels and thinks
all we should do is

LISTEN!