So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

between you and me,
i'm still rooting for us.

maybe not in this lifetime,
but in the end.

"everything happens for a reason"
is a line i'd rather not hear from now on.

reasons i wish i knew why,
what in my life it tries to imply.

i don't want to sit around and wonder,
what i could have done much better.

The first time I heard you,
I already knew.
A good beat, nice melody
You were too catchy.

The first time I heard you,
my breath caught in my throat
As you were pronounced
my new favorite song.

The first time I heard you,
you were already stuck in my head
Playing on repeat as I stared out the window,
thinking of you instead of leaving my den.

The first time I heard you,
I tried to change the station
But you were playing on every one.

The first time I heard you,
I was already too deep in love
to let you go.

she's
  
  a song

that

     you will

never know

        because

you never

          listened.

why do
squirrels
try to
cross our
streets
and die?

why is
life seemingly
taken away
in the blink
of an eye?

why do
green leaves
turn yellow,
brownish copper
and reds?

why do i
feel life
so DEEPLY
that sometimes
i would
much rather
be dead?

it's a
balancing act,
wanting to
live
life,
that is.

sanity and
insanity,
God's and
the
grim reaper's
kiss.

my struggle
each day
is as real
as
these words
that with you
i choose
to share.

i'm happy,
i'm unhappy
and...
my poetic
bi polarness,
just doesn't
care.

most of
my days
are toiled
through
and,
few
feel
worth living.

my poetic
verse that
i share
with y'all
is all that
i feel
like giving.

words of
   advice to thee,

never judge
what you
can't see.

they may
be a
soul...
as tortured
and wounded
as me.

Some people are bananas
They may look fine
But underneath they are bruised
You never know
Until you peel back the layers
And find the damage
Be careful with bananas
They are easily crushed

A rose is a rose.
So they say, as it goes.
It dances around
as the artists compose.

In the garden in rows.
Quite at home, I suppose.
Why do we dream of a rose?
No one really knows.

It moves and it flows.
It changes and grows.
As our secrets expose
the soft scent of the rose.