he’s got this soul
from the soles
of his feet, man
he’s got this rhythm
unleashed,
got this beat, man
on the mic, he swears
no defeat, no cares,
no woman on the mind, man,
he’s whole with
the soul he bares and
this hole he tears in
my heart beats fair
unfair this grip on my
breath it’s sick I could be
maybe i’m crazy but man
that’s a **** poet.

i don’t like people anymore
they make me think too much
and smile when i don’t want to
i’d rather waste away alone
with a cup of coffee and
some overrated novel.

his hands pounced on me
his warm breath smelled of desperation
and Jack Daniels, he wasted no time

A glare from his mother,
her arms folded like the paper crane
I’ve never been able to remember
how to create

The ringing of a cell phone
at one in the morning,
and an empty dial tone
on the other end

The salty stains on my face
that linger long after I stop crying

sometimes we wonder why bad things happen
when we forget our blessings and count our tragedies
we mourn and grieve and hug and pray
and hug and cry and hug and say
I love you

we spread our fingers to hold numb hands
and we look each other in the eyes and let tears fall
we hold each other and don’t let go
for fear of life disappearing
before and our damp and betraying eyes

we watch in awe as others stand strong
laughing and smiling and honoring her spirit
unbroken unfazed and unforgettable

“Batman and barbies” he reminisces and shares
as composure escapes for a moment
the best daughter, sister, friend and teacher
above in the heavens for all to share

Allison, we love you and miss you dearly
and as we try to go on living in your honor
please forgive us if we break down and cry

You are beautiful and we’ll see you soon
it won’t be long

I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
I remember days when I thought they were perfect.
These delicate angels that defy fragility; they belonged somewhere.
I remember thinking I would be a hand model.
At the fragile age of 10, I knew what I was put on this earth for.
It was meant to be.
My perfect hands could do anything.
McDonald’s would want them in their Big Mac commercials.
Revlon would want my healthy cuticles to model nail polish
I could learn sign language and open up worlds of possibilities.

I remember the day I shared my dream with my mother,
“Mom, I’m going to be a hand model,” I said with appropriate gravity.
“But, honey,” she replied, “your ******* is crooked.”

I wake up some days not loving who I am
And on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
The shattered dreams they hold with every imperfection—
The broken what ifs and crooked middle fingers
More crooked with every nervous crack of a knuckle
And syncopated snap, snap
with every ******* and broken promise
I forget what it’s like to trust

I wake up some days wanting to go back to sleep
Back to my dream with my perfect hands
that with a touch could turn plastic to steel
turn thieves to Robin Hoods, turn the weary to the wise
with my perfect hands that
gave youth to the old, clarity to the young
sanity to the misunderstood and
promise to the dreamers
hope to the hopeless and
a smile to the ones who have already given up

back to my dream where
my lips aren’t sealed, but my hands are
a cupped offering of sweetness, concentrated
But honey, your ******* is crooked
And I wake again in a warm sweat.

My perfect hands are lonely
And impatient
They want to be warm again
Like they used to be when they were perfect
Whole, like when they held another.

I wake up some days not loving who I am,
and on these days that come just a little too often, I look at my hands.
But on some days, I forget about my crooked *******.