I used to lay with my mother in the morning
my brother and I
half asleep in my parents bed
I remember taking her hands into mine and
feeling her knuckles
she had a green pillow
sewed in with flowers
even at 5 years old - the hands that raised me
were mesmerizing, they were my safety
I did not realize it at the time
she was tired
and their bed was monumental
it was what I looked forward too every night
as my father sang me to sleep
100 bottles of beer on the wall
and ill buy you a mockingbird
I looked forward to the morning

I held my brother
In his zoo pajamas painted with pandas
and I held my brother
as fast as the sunlight radiated in my bedroom, he was small and he was and is -
my safe haven
my brother snuggled up against my neck
and she held us, half asleep
and morning doves sang their songs

—-

that is now my lullaby
nothing mattered as I held my mothers knuckles
nothing mattered when my brother
squeezed my arm
I was never afraid of my mothers knuckles
I was never afraid of my father singing
I was never afraid of my brothers grip


I woke up this morning in my own bed
alone and tired
morning doves did not sing
they screamed
and my brother is still far
and my father is taking care of my mother
and my mother is taking care of my father
I woke up —- and my brother is far away
my father is growing older
and my mothers knuckles are nowhere near me
I ran my fingers across my
own hands
and I pray that one day

my knuckles will be remembered
the way I remember hers

if i could have given you the world
you would have lived forever
but love cannot maintain life
love is truly not enough
and this is the biggest lesson i have learned
in my series of unfortunate series of events
that i call my life
i think phrases like
it wasn't meant to be
is a coping mechanism
because it is easier to spit out words
than to accept the truth
the truth is too painful
and the sun still rises
no matter what the truth is
and we are all trying to live

even if that means ending life
you will be and will forever be
my everything

I stopped losing my hair and I started waking up again
I returned to a mundane routine
In a similar place with similar people
I found reprieve in the love that was given to me daily
And I stopped feeling sorry for myself
I started pouring my soul into my career
Because people need me
People count on me
I have a dog now and I pay all my bills
I smile at the sun and breathe in the air that is so
Graciously given to me everyday
I clean up when there is a mess and I check in on my father
I make sure my appearance is presentable and I take care of my body
I love my friends and I keep up with phone calls
I thank when there is thankfulness to be given and I am humble
When achievements are made
I hold on to memories and I cherish the good ones
I bask in nostalgia and I stare at the sunset
I look up at the birds and I appreciate their songs
I thank them for waking me up and silencing when I am sleeping

I take care of myself and I -

Cry when I am alone
I try to keep up when I am behind I-
Struggle to find my purpose, and I actually don’t really sleep
I return to my mundane routine because
People need me?
And in the back of my mind I know that I am easily replaced
My career is advancing in a way to attempt to succeed
In a world that is so disappointed in less than ordinary
I clean up when my mind is so distressed from the weeks of mess that
I so solemnly swore would never appear again when I was in crisis
I’m presentable but it was from the night before
I “bare minimumed” the expectation
Which surprises me when it is so deceiving to others
I have three maybe four good friends that check in
I give what others would expect
I pay when I can, and I keep my workouts at a point where I don’t choke on my own sadness, maybe even selfishness
Nostalgia is interpreted as pain these days
I self medicate to wake up for others
And call it a day.

I hold onto to memories that haunt me
The birds make me jealous
And sunsets only remind me that a new day will start.

And I am tired.

do not let the healer know they have already died

they cannot afford to recognize that human suffering - let that be physical or not
it is not theirs to fix, just to cradle

healers push their own suffering down to make room for others’
until there is no room left for their own

do not let the healer know that they died long ago

they are already tired of death
they try to cheat it everday
let them be foolish so they may save themselves when suffering can no longer be cradled

if there is yet one thing that keeps me from my own mind
let it be more gentle than man
let it be more gentle than the obscure and odd
oppositions that dwell in my minimally exuberant effort to be
less than ordinary

if there is yet one thing that keeps me from my own mind
let it be happier than the hand of the beholder
hardly handling the wet concrete i call a moral compass
a mirror looks at - but a magnet attracts within
it is physically expressed and emotionally repressed
drawn only to its own invisible counterpart

if there is one thing that keeps me from my own mind
let it be electric like the current that keeps my heart half
alive
may the blood run warm but never forget the cold sting
of the rugged & rough yet equally ravenous lesson of heartbreak
may it never forget its roots, yet anticipate the cold

if there is yet one thing that keeps me from my own mind

let it be the touch of my lover
the breath of my mother
the morning birds hover
the cry of a newborn
the gasp of the dying
the rich mans conscience
and the poor mans crying
let it be soft strands of hair
a woman's chest bare
let it be a cry for help
let someone be there
let it be confidence from within
the times you could call it a win

let it be an ocean wave - let it swallow the sand
let my heart move forward - let the sail find the land

let it go back home
let it remember the days
where my mind was unscathed
and pain slipped away

let it be

let it be

have nothing on me
as I watch with blissful anger
at how beautiful it used to seem
if life speaks tragedy
I’ll scream at the top of my lungs
to drown out the uselessness
of the moon and the sun
they mock me so violently
but still take my breath away
they yell and they whisper
to go on another day
I hate you and I love you
moon and sun in between
they will always be more beautiful
and to them I will always be seen

rays steady shine
& radiate into my bedroom
earlier than usual this season
they say the warm season is one
of new life, nourishment, flourishing
but summer is even more sad

the summer reminds me of the feelings
that will not change even with the seasons
at least the winter mirrored the way
i feel inside
the irony is uncanny
i say i hate winter
but im beginning to think it is my favorite season
because i relate to winter

i dont relate to sunshine