It feels like I keep
my feelings in a bucket
And each day
it gets heavier
and heavier
Until I empty it.

But until Then
I carry this bucket around
It drags in the dirt behind me
and weighs me down.
And at the end of each day
I feel so heavy myself.

Every night I sort
through the bucket,
All the anger is crusted
to the bottom
and It's impossible to scrub away
Happiness is always falling out.
It takes a lot more happiness to fill that bucket
and even then it weights
less that even a speck of anger.

It takes a drop of sadness, a smidge
of pain, or even a dash of
frustration to overpower the happiness and
shove it from the bucket.

Finally one day I look
down at this bucket of mine and
I realize, I'm tired
of lugging it around
and carrying
the wounds
and anger of my past self.

Tonight I empty my bucket
I'll let the pain and sadness
go
and set the anger free

After all I can't hold on to it
forever

We talk about
pain
like it doesn't
hurt

We talk about
love
but we don't
know it

We talk about that
girl
over there, but
she didn't do a
thing

And then we have the audacity to
laugh it off
like it's
no big deal

That's all we do now
laugh and talk

Maybe we don't
know
what we're talking about

instead of pretending to have the
knowledge
we should get a feel
ourselves
take the pain we've inflicted
upon others

And maybe just maybe
we'll get how
big of a deal
it really is

I have yet to find something good
in saying bye
I rarely say it to my mother or father, friends, siblings,
or people I've just met
I have every intent on seeing
you again, so why
would i say good bye?
So instead i part with
Farewell,
So Long,
See you soon,
It was a pleasure to meet you,
and my favorite;
Love you.

I Used To Be an Optimistic
Child
Believing everything was black and white.
~~~~
It was the first summer in our new
home.
I was six or seven
My Father needed help in the lawn so feeling
in a helping mood, I went out.
His hands were in the dirt and his forehead
was bronzed.
He waved his arm at a small,
Delicate flower.
Go pull weeds.
Not one to question him while, he was busy,
I went over to inspect the flower- i mean ****
How could something so tiny, even more do than my hands,
be considered a ****?

My tiny mind thought weeds were
dark green and barley clinging
to life, with thorns that sliced at
other helpless plants and animals.
Almost like bad people.

I imagine it was then that
My small mind had begun
to grasp
at the idea that plants and people alike
could deceive you.