Someday
your eyes will fixate on mine
and they'll never have to part again.
Someday
the taste of your lips won't linger
and fade, it will only stay.
Someday
from your embrace
I'll no longer be ripped, and
Someday
the worry, fear, and doubt
will only be a memory. But
Someday
can't can't replace what is,
and what is can't be faked.

Someday.

They say it's hope that gets us through,
it's hope that keeps the heart beating
and dreams dreaming. But
what they forgot to tell us
is that hope also sets us up
for disappointment, anger, failure, pain,
relapse.
It plays a sly little game,
dealing a hand of wild cards and
wearing a poker face of a thousand
different personalities.
Call, pass, or fold? The outcome is uncertain, yes, but
with only a few penny chips left, it's best to fold.
Because it doesn't make sense to have hope
when hope doesn't even have you.

Is this what you call a family?
You cannot demand respect, only earn it.
You cannot say you love, only show it.
Earning and showing
are foreign words to you,
but understood to your daughter.
A stellar student and beloved friend.
Hard working, dedicated, never failing
or giving up, a support for the weak and
a shoulder for the damaged.
These were earned, and now are shown,
but remain invisible to you.
You see your daughter, but you do not see her.
Is this what you call a family?
Hatred, disrespect, belittlement, shame?
You've neither earned nor shown and have failed to see,
you fill my life with **** and misunderstand me.
I am angry, yes, but I am angry at you. Angry
at your inability to practice what you preach,
at your ignorance, criticizing, oblivion to who I am.
Open your mind eyes and you will see, close your mouth
until it says what is true about me. *******,
I don't need you, I'll do this on my own.
You brought this on yourself, and now I'm

gone.

She's different, that's why she's rare.
She's different, that's why she's mis-
understood. Seeing through a unique lens
inspires scrutiny, slander, blurs.
But forgive her for having passion,
passion that so many others lack;
they simply fall in line, want to fall
in line. She never cared for lines much.

Her standards and her head are held high,
she brought this upon herself;
a long way to fall,
an even longer climb back up.
But sometimes you gotta fall before you fly.
She is her disease, these aimless words
are her therapy. On top of them she sores,
and together they find direction.

Has she taken the road less traveled, or
the road never paved?
Is she just used,
or is she useless? Can she be sure
of what lies ahead?
Is she even supposed to know?
Is she even even?
Nothing is definite, everything is
chaos.
Relentless.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
Her mind cannot know peace;
it's on the run. Anxiety here,
stress there. "You can't escape us," they cackle.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
The black space that separates
them is nothing new to her.
She blinks and the color remains.

She's become good friends with the ceiling.
Seconds, minutes, hours tick
above tired heavy eyes fixed.
Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.