your mind is a forest, and i
want to carve my initials
onto every tree

What if the last words we spoke
Are left like a shadow
Above our still lips
Our absent lips

And others
Of us
Stumble upon them
In their morbidity
In their peace
And scrawl them
Onto pages
With a trembling pen
In trembling  hands

Drowning
With the sorrow of your shadowed
Words
Hung still
For eternity

I'm sorry my words get jumbled
flailing off of my tongue as if
I've just learned to speak.
they're all so calculatedly stoic,
yet so simultaneously messy
with the secrets
that slip out of my lips.
and I'm sorry that when i say
the things I'm meant to say,
they aren't the words
you want to hear.

Brave little woman,
                                                  petrified she'll never fit in
perhaps it's her unique perception of the world,

                              or the colour of her skin.

But do not keep it all within,
                                      
                  ­                                      for the tears staining your rosy cheeks
prove you not fragile nor weak.

You are, my dear
                                                               the essence of Picasso's landscape,
                                

                                 now splattered with violence, corruption & strife

But darling have hope,                           

                                   there is far too much chromatism on this earth

                     to bathe our minds in black & white.