I continue
to write
about flowers
so they
never die.

She prayed for freckles
to inhabit her pale skin,
the small pigments covering
her defined cheekbones,
displaying an intricate pattern
as rare as the beauty of her hidden soul,
begging to shine through her open pores.

Millions of people
work nine to five
breaking their backs
for disposable paper bills
and small copper coins
never realizing currency
cannot guarantee tomorrow.
The promise of another day
can only be granted by
a phenomenon we continue
to waste: t...i...m...e.

Darkness, when he sobs,
turns his sadness into storms,
his tears into rain.

I.
the cloud yearned to sweetly kiss the sea
for he reflected the colored sky  in his crashing waves
so the cloud could see her mirrored image was beautiful.

II.
the cloud lived in eternal sadness
willing herself to sob salty tears
a sacrifice to save the sea from emptiness.

III.
the cloud fell in love with the sea
because no matter how her shape or size changed
his waves formed a curved smile of affection.

The sea is the only creation
that can feel

(s)ympathy,
(e)mpathy, and
(a)pathy

all at once.

A beautiful contradiction.

Mothers don't allow their young daughters
to experiment with make-up until old enough
but I had no choice but to bring a brush to my face
and paint the canvas to hide each blemish.
Long sleeves, loose scarves, fitted jeans,
anything to hide the daily playground ritual.  
The swing I experienced was not hanging from chains
but rather from the tightened fists of someone I once knew.
I found solidarity underneath the weeping willow tree
as we sobbed together in the cool air of November.