Just give me a day, I’ll figure it out
My mind can’t decide what to say
I wish I knew what this was about

Part of me wants to give up and pout
But my heart tells me to try until the break of day
Just give me a day, I’ll figure it out

Some days in my sleep I’ll let out a shout
The words of this poem decide they won’t stay
I wish I knew what this was about

This assignment fills me with doubt
It’s causing my brain to decay
Just give me a day, I’ll figure it out

Looking for a sign this is the right route
But the horizons are faded gray
I wish I knew what this was about

This poem has begun to sprout
In the end it’s finally okay
Just give me a day, I’ll figure it out
I wish I knew what this was about

There is a feeling inside my heart that’s hard to explain
A hole, an empty void
Whose presence I feel strongly

Having nothing can hurt deeply
It’s a feeling that ******
And doesn't stop pricking

Where will you run?
To failure, guilt, and hurt?
The emptiness will follow like a shadow

Sometimes you'll use words to let it all out
Other times everything will go numb

But the feeling of emptiness stays
Silently screaming
Asking to be filled

You ask how
It says figure out
The cycle is exhausting
So you quietly close your eyes
Hoping to escape from it all for a while
After all tomorrow is another day
And the sun might shine

i have watched my friend tripping over honey traps,
leaving little pieces of himself stuck to every sticky step
as he continues forth into cobweb arms
where a venomous spider awaits, chelicerae poised to snap and bite.

my friend is smart and good and if there are gods in the sky
i will pray for the first time in years
that they lead him AWAY from that seductive silk
and into safer satin.

if there's on thing i know, it is this: he does not deserve
to fall victim to YOU and your lies, you and your wicked smile.
you've woven so many whoppers, your web is bigger than the internet
that you use to draw him in.
stop drawing him in.
he is the artist; not you.

i wish i could say that my friend is like a wasp, that he could
sting and escape and fly away to fairer flowers
instead of you: wilting rose, thorny and brittle and grown from ****.
but my friend is instead more akin to a bee,

helpful and soft, endangered; he would suffer more harm
if i could tell him why he needs to sting you
and i will not be known as the man who aided the death
of such a beautiful being
with such a bright and buzzing brain.

isnt it sweet?
how much the human heart is able to bare,
the lines between support and manipulations that
past-lovers have drawn for you,
isnt it sweet? how much you will
carry for the people who arent quite yet
past-lovers, how you will draw boundaries
and cross lines just to touch, just to feel, just to
create some sort of tangible memory for when you
sit with only their names left in your mouth, isnt the
line between sweet and naive based on experience?
isnt it naive? how far you will go to love people into
boxes, how you will let yourself fall apart and
you will watch them spit you out onto the floor and still
you have so much faith in every single rushed kiss and
almost-memory that one of these people you let touch you
with the lights off, one of these people you will drink
into your poetry will be more than just a past-lover?

becoming a poet since I read more
than I write
becoming a human
since I feel more
of others
becoming a man I stand tall in peace
becoming another
I hope for

If I could paint the skies
I would paint it with the links of my mind
I would paint it with cyans and magentas and limes
Reds and oranges and yellows
Blacks and greys and white
All sorts of colours
I would paint it with sorrow and happiness alike
I would paint it with the voice of my soul alight
I would paint the sky with my emptiness...
And the result
Would be the same night sky I see.
Stars shining bright
No hint of any other colour but
The midnight painted with white spots.
Galaxies invisible
Shooting stars veiled
The moon irrepressible
The stars afield
Their lights not powerful
But gentle on the eyes
Caressing the soul
Of the weary and tired.

If I could paint the skies...
And if only I could,
I would paint it all colours alike
With a thick paintbrush
Soaked in a water airy as can be...
But, that is,
If only.