What is there left to write?
There is nothing left for me to say, so why do I now need to write more than ever?
In a poetic sense I am blank, so do I just want to give the world a message?
Losing the numbness all around me has caused me some pain, but I am really happy too.
I can't help but just want to take in the world, looking out over the hill I live on to change my perspective.
I can't imagine a brighter sight than those lights of the city from this point.
I can't imagine a better place to be, other than with people who I could share it with.
My chest swells with anticipation just wanting to see everyone again, to claim the world over again as a happy person.
I can't wish pain on another person, yet I can threaten it with my friends, playful or serious, because I know that I don't have it in me to hurt them again.
I hope I can have the courage to step outside my bubble, and to help others do the same.
I want to be an inspiration to someone, whether it be by writing what I feel, just being a good person, or advancing my field of work whatever it may be.
I just want to make the world realize that pain is a part of life, and that people shouldn't hide from it.
Sure it may bleed you dry, but if you let it take your personality away the only thing you will have left is your interests.
Whatever the case may be in your life, needing pain as a reminder that you are alive, wanting someone to share your pain, wanting the world to know you are there.
It doesn't matter, you just need to live to get it done, you need to chase after everything you want with an ambition that you feel can't be matched.
You can slow down your life to help others along the way, whether it hurts anyone in the process is just their willingness to move on with life.
I want to help everyone, I want to care for the people with no one, because I have been there too.
I want to make the world an easier place to live in by helping people with the pain life brings.
There may be some who don't want help along the way, their pride hasn't been shattered by pain.
That is the time in your life where you build up the walls around your heart, keeping your ego and your pride up on the top shelf so no one can knock you off your high horse except yourself.
The only real way to stop yourself from becoming that horseman is to let people in, remember how the world feels.
Let yourself remember all the times you enjoyed your life, no matter how far back you may have to search there is something in there for everyone.
A life with no happiness found in any crevice hasn't tried to experience anything new.
They haven't explored what they may or may not enjoy, they can't fathom being happy for any reason except the end of their suffering.
Whoever has reached that state, where they can't even remember being happy in their lives just needs to start over.
No one should try and exist without experiencing some form of joy every once in a while.
Give someone a hug, ask someone for a hug, apologize for whatever, make yourself aware of your problem, whether you can identify the cause, or if you are just a mystery to yourself.
I can't stop these words from leaving me, I just want my message to the world to be seen by everyone who can understand that locking yourself away isn't worth the price of hurting everyone.
Locking yourself away can't be the answer, because if you lose the key, you can't ever make it back to the ones you love.
You can't ever love anyone else in your life, and you can just become lost in the pain that you made for yourself.
Eventually I see those people start to only be able to feel again when they abuse substances, or when they hurt themselves.
Which I know they don't want it, but they forgot what anything but pain has felt like, and they want a reminder that they aren't just in hell, they are living it.
People who are alone, whether they fear that loneliness or if they relish in it can't really learn to express how they feel.
I learned through watching other people, I became a mirror until I lost that numb feeling that consumed me.
I know how people think again, I can see who is sad by their eyes, and it pains me to see people hurt when I feel like I have the power to help them.
Most refuse me, whether it be fear of pain, lack of trust, or excessive pride.
I want to make the world a happy place with the acceptance of pain.
I want to make life easier for people, whether I love them, hate them, or don't even know them.
Can I write the whole world a song so I can help people move on, or will the lyrics fall short and leave the people in pain with more questions about why they are suffering?
I want the people in the world who are hurt to remember that there is someone there.
You just have to look up and see that outstretched hand.
You can't often see them because they are far away, so you have to take the first few steps to them on your own.
Yet now that you can see them, you recall they were always there, you want to apologize to them, but they just welcome you back to the world.
I want this for the world.
I want acceptance of pain, and relishing in joy to be things that everyone is capable of.
Even if you feel like you have been shoved into the dirt to live alone, you will always have someone there.
Whether you know it or not depends on if you want to see the person who is there to help you, or if you just want to keep a firm grip on your pride.
My message to the world isn't as long as it could be there is no way it will be seen by the eyes of everyone, but if you like my message, just pass it around.
Maybe we can help people out of their pain, and back into the lights of the world.
Maybe, just maybe, we can help the ones we love the most.

It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.

There is a woman,
In years her sun is setting.
When it rises,
She wakes,
Gets out of bed,
Walks through hallways,
Out her front door,
Into her car,
In the backseat,
Where she goes back to sleep.

Why she does this, I don't know.
It has something to do with her fingernails.
She holds them in front of her,
Little ribbons of light emerge and weave themselves,
Until tangled and without direction,
Not without,
In every direction.
In the red back-light her silver hair becomes ablaze.
Extending from this fire that has no sentiment towards time,
Is an arm,
It has no joints and can only have it's palm facing up.
Cradled in the pit of infinite lifelines,
Are a set of hands,
They do a trapeze act on an entire spectrum,
That spangle into a single pillar.
Atop is the closest thing to,
Eternal elixirs.

Why she does this, I don't know,
But I don't want to be like her.
I don't want to hand myself a glass of water and say
'Thank you'.
I don't want to let the wind in my ears,
So it can pierce my head like a javelin.
Turning me to a device that spits directions,
Though,
Doesn't really know,
Because I constantly spin on one foot.
I don't want to be the popping spark,
That ebbs away the right hemisphere of the brain.
The hollowed echo of conversations from prior days.
She drives her car as if it were a living room.
She makes everything inside my skin move down,
A quarter inch.
I don't want to be like that woman,
Who only has herself as company,
Yet still manages to disagree with whats being said.

I want to be a compass that points towards paradise,
Instead,
I find a mirror,
And a reflection of fleeting beauty.
Instead,
I hear the wind,
And an unfamiliar dinner party.

So early, it is
That the sun has not stretched and risen over the mountainside
Only streetlamps cast yellowed light
Glinting off the slickwet pavement
After a night of soothing, chilling rain.

The rain lulls me
Like the song of a mother much unlike my own
Who croons to a child not because they fuss
But because she wishes to soothe them further
Into the sweetsoft pillow of sleep.

My fingers are chilled
And I long to lay naked in the warmth of
The electric coils buried in the soft blanket
That murmur words of sleep
And unending warmth.

But I rise, sadly
Don corduroy and a sweater older than I am
As well as slipping on the regret and the guilt
For actions done and undone
Of yesterday.

If I could choose
I would lay infinitely in the land of full warmth
And self-love and no regrets
Perhaps with someone by my side
On endless autumn mornings after rain.

Bury me with my poppy.
My greatest memory; my simple joy.

Spring time brings brightness--
colors other than white.
A flushed landscape from

stamen performing as paint;
replicating a sleepy orange
yellow, green, red

I contemplate picking the poppy
to keep for myself.

Life feels large
like the sparkling lake--
that cold sunny hour when you sat
by a fire bordered by icy rocks.
The earth sheltered in poppies.

We all expect moments without an end.
Post-bloom petals fall flat before falling away.

Miracles can be a curse or a blessing,
brave or cowardly,
Swallowing up certainty.

Poppy tears
slowly release memories--
a crisp deliberate euphoria.

I leave behind the orange flower.
Appreciation is not lost.

The sky is a blessing
The mountains are my grace
The green is my friend
My mother is none.

I am a child of the sea, the oceans and the trees
It has made it so much harder to leave

I want to breathe the fresh, fresh air.
i lay bare with corroded lungs.

Please let me go,
forgive me will the bird
forgive me will the rose
I must go.
Forgive me,
for this is not my show

"1 in 8 women will develop breast cancer over her lifetime"
my mother’s eyes did not blink as she spoked riddles.
i stared at the lump. an alien invading.
War of the Worlds.
"For women in the U.S., breast cancer death rates are higher than those for any other cancer, besides lung cancer."
she was in the hospital, a week, or two. it felt like five years.
i did not sleep that summer.
drunk off sake, my mother still did not cry.
"In 2011, an estimated 230,480 new cases of invasive breast cancer were expected to be diagnosed in women in the U.S."
the night before surgery, I cried until my lungs flopped to the floor
like two useless sacs of atoms.
I scratched my skin until morning,
waiting until my veins leaked.
"A woman’s risk of breast cancer approximately doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer."
some days my ******* will sting, and I imagine a small demon,
with horns and razor teeth eating away at the inside of my *******.
when in the shower, I will cusp them in my hands, waiting to feel bumps.
instead I feel too small *******, with a heart that beats too fast.
nights, I dream of my mother with only one breast,
I dream of myself with no *******
The most significant risk factors for breast cancer are gender (being a woman) and age (growing older).*
let me never grow older, for I do not want my territory
stained. but I feel it squirming, and I want to **** it out with my
teeth.

it is pathetic that I am most worried about shaving my
head.