His home is an orphanage
in downtown Belize.
Triple-decker bunk beds
topped with ***** stained mattresses
fill each room.
An abandoned 10 year old
lies paralyzed on the floor;
"Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him."
A small child covered in sores
sleeps in a puddle of his own *****.

I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy
who proceeds to sculpt me
changing the pink to brown
with his ***** hands.
When he is done,
it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"What is your name?"
"I'm Allen"
He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize
and becoming a U.S. soldier.
He tells me of how his mother,
a **** addict,
dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old
and how he remembers
the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes
every time she looked at him
and saw his father.
His favorite color is blue.
Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads,
and as I stand to leave
he hands me a pinkish-brown heart
warm and sweaty
from his ***** hands.
And in return
I hand Allen,
and every child like him,
my own heart
red and ******,
dedicated and passionate,
foolishly and hopefully attempting
to change the world.

You'll always be mine – for that moment in time,
With my heart in your hands and yours in mine.
I've soared and I've stumbled to this perfect scene,
Many a time in many a dream.

I'll never let go.  
I'll always hold you tight.
You showed me what love meant on that perfect night.

You know that feeling
That feeling you get when you wake up and her head is resting on your chest
That warm, happy feeling you get when she looks up at you and smiles
When she smiles
That feeling you get that makes you think ‘if life is a journey, and this is life…
Book me down for miles… so many miles’
That awesome feeling
That girl that just makes you happy, the one you would rather watch a movie with
Than go out drinking
The one that you annoyed, went home, looked in the mirror, slapped yourself a couple of times and asked “what were you thinking?”
That person that believes in you, more than you believe in yourself
You can always rely on her; you no longer do it yourself
Pun intended
But I know you know that feeling… I know you know that person
So rather than reading this and going “she’s awesome”
Go over to her place right now and tell her in person
Today I got sentimental, but sometimes in life sentiment becomes instrumental
To the creation of happy juices
Pun intended
So don’t make too many ****** choices
And end up being that person reading this, reeling…
In frustration, going… “No... I do not know that feeling.”

It’s not giving up when you let go.
You tried, right?
You held him fast in your arms until
You were only clutching air.
You still wish for him there.
You may ache for him in the night
Though your loneliness was fiercer
With his breath in your lungs.

Yet like the morning fog
He has disappeared,
Leaving the warmth of day
In his wake

I took a little spill and I scraped my knees.
I tumbled down the stairs,
and I fell into the street.
The bruises I could handle,
the cuts, the aches, the swells,
but when the blood dripped
from my mouth,
back down the hill I fell.

when i was younger, every time i dove into a pool, i would test myself to see how long i could hold my breath. i would count the seconds in my head, in the eerie silence, in the muffled utopia that swelled around me in the deep, weightless water. and every time i got closer and closer to the end of my breathe, i would feel a tight pressure around my neck, and my eyes would swell, and i would for a moment lose myself in the most exhilarating and most terrifying experience.

and then i would shoot out the air from my lungs into the water. the bubbles would burst and jet out from my nostrils and mouth. and i would resurface, breaking the water - gasping for a new gulp of oxygen.

i feel the same way when i let somebody in. when i trust somebody new. i feel like the air i held on to for so long escapes and i need to hurry to the surface for safety. i need to beg the atmosphere for air.

i think the scary thing about ‘losing’ somebody (not to death but just a parting of ways in general) is that depending on how close you let them get to you, they saw you for who you honestly were. it’s like if somebody takes a candid photograph of you and then keeps it from you. they get to take that snapshot, that moment or fraction of you, and bring it with them.

sometimes they distort the image out of bitterness, or anger, and even jealousy. and they share that misconception of you with others. and those other people will hear your name and pin that ugly thing next to it and say “oh I heard about them”. and that’s the thing. they didn’t see you, they just heard about you. they haven’t had the chance to get behind the viewfinder and capture that raw and real photograph of you. a memory of you that is all their own. something special and unique between the two of you.

and sometimes people take their photographs of you and put them in a box under their beds, inside a desk drawer, or shoved between books and loose paper. you’re still there, floating around. but out of sight, out of mind. you do it too, you know. everyone does.

but then there are those people, even though you haven’t heard from them in years, who have your special candid photograph framed. right next to their beds. and you don’t even know. maybe you never will. but there you are. your stupid expression, your laughing grin, that embarrassing haircut. right where they left you.