The small boy dreamed of
small pink rose gardens and
playing with bright-eyed dolls.
He never found the joy in
the crack of a baseball bat
or the rolling wheels of a toy car.
Mommy and Daddy never understood
where they had gone wrong with him.
They were too focused on the debate
of blue versus pink to realize their child
was wiser at five than they were at thirty-two.

A plane ticket can help you
leave this hell behind,
but it can't help you escape
from your dreadful mind.

I have become endlessly infatuated
with the low cadence of your voice.
The way it crackles before dawn and
strengthens after your morning coffee.
Your soft lips part to bare its splendor.
It tickles my earlobe when you whisper
soft melodies I could never grow tired of.
It covers the rim of your coffee cup when
you take a sip; it sweetly kisses you like I do.
I believe in the beauty of simplicity once more.

You try to blend in
with the beautiful daisies
when all you feel like is
a dandelion, a ****.

What if our tears of loneliness
fell from our wet cheeks
and met at our chin
to make each other whole?

In the warmth of May
I look at the magnolias
And wonder when I, too,
Will bloom into something
Beautiful.

Bruised,
Bewildered,
Battered,
Broken.

What else starts with B?

Beautiful.