stop telling girls
that they’re not skinny enough

stop telling girls
that their feet are too large

stop telling girls
that their stomachs need to be flat

stop telling girls
that they should always cross their legs

stop telling girls
that they have too much muscle

stop telling girls
that a d cup is too large

stop telling girls
that their thighs are too fat

stop telling girls
to **** in their guts

stop telling girls
not to sit like a man

stop telling girls
that their ******* curls are too big

stop telling girls
that they can’t take up space
like a ******* man can
because
yes
they
*******
can

I will be like a tree to you
neath whose shade you lie
as the days pull you down
and my branches long for
the pull of your weight-
the only kind I will allow
to pull me down.

Painless is the way
I shed my leaves for you,
die a slow death
all for your love for a golden autumn,
and again I come back to life for you,
because winter is a lonely business.

Your faith in my hold
is strengthened over these glad years,
unbreakable perhaps,
like how my roots are interwoven
into your ribs.

My poetry is eternal for you,
growing each day
and when you cut me open,
the rings will tell you of the years
I bled for you.

I will be a tree to you,
your very own Eden,
and the day I die,
I hope my roots reach out to you
when the time comes for you to
marry into the earth.

Only a vehement storm
can put me down.

It was a dark night, rain slashing through it,
Trying to cut the windowpane,
When your demons escaped from the cage.
They tied you up and burned you on a stake.
The fire licked you up and devoured you,
They thought they have destroyed you at last.
But your soul is a phoenix,
and it sprung back up from the ash.

Past the time of day ,
when modern things are put away,
when the forest of the night,
swallows whole the waking forests light
with an exulting mass of chorusing wishes
a delicate hush of silent kisses;
Plays gentle on the ears of sin,
and rejoices in the gentle din,
of mother natures flowing wings

If you could only hear
the wistful natter
the softly tread patter
of charming creations, their tiny beams,
that carefully waltz the verge of dreams

you would understand the peaceful throng
of dusky crawlers, their gentle song
their deafening cry, your soothing balm
as nature hold you in her palm

So stand, gentle brother
soft and calm
hold loving near the peace and charm
and wander now
the streets of dark
and let her dreams
engulf your heart.