There's a little girl
Inside of me
Who threatens to break free
Every time I think about her
She smiles down on me

She dances in my heart
And crawls through my soul
But whenever I'm asked
Who she is
I say I no longer know

Messiness in my mind.
Gunshots like voices ringing.
The moon seems dark tonight.
The moon seems to cry.
That the tears drip down, and I see the blood of my heart.
Roses, made of thorns, the pain I felt when I see that cross.
flowers, painted with pain.
the light seems to hide.
the sorrow soaring high.
my heart hurts as i write this down.
i hope to see the beauty behind the madness before i fall down...

.                               “I
                            lo­ok out
                        side the window
                      and there
                   I see the
                moon, and
            that makes
           me wonder,
            ‘why would
              such a beauty
                   always want
                     to hide a part
                       of herself, why will
                             she want to?’
                                     ”

There's more to suicide than what we think it is.
It's not just unanswered questions,
sometimes, it's unasked ones.

I might not know much.
But i know just this much about racism.
That it hurts.
that it scars and tears wounds apart.
that it kills and murders.
steals and slanders.
breaks and ruins.


Different people.
Different beds that they sleep on, is this how it is?
That some feel cold in a thick winter jacket.
That some feel starved even when they have enough.
putting labels on beautiful jars.
filled with the most beautiful of hearts and dreams untold.
words that burn.
burning them like paper.
are you one of no heart?
or perhaps a heart that simply has no sense of love.
that simply doesn't understand.
you say "its just a joke"
but it still burns them up with fire and smoke.
how those flowers die slowly i might know.
but i would need your help so that you don't have to know.
so that, you could put them back together and make them whole...

Like grains of sand, that slip through the hand:
     Where’s the sense in counting?
Years pass quickly by, so soon we die,
     for sins we’ll be accounting!
Some meek - some bold, times hot - times cold,
     the life that’s ours, too fleeting.
To where winds blow?  No one will know:
     naught but momentary meeting.
We plan - we scheme, we act - we dream,
     all comes to end at death.
Friends met - then lost: we count the cost,
     they’ve drawn their final breath.
We live each day; our chosen way;
     count not the hours we’ve spent.
As some will say, to live each day,
     must be our sole intent.
From Nature’s earth, at dawn of birth,
     ours, but a passing presence.
So count not grains, for Life soon wanes:
     time always of the essence.

Rhymer June 15th, 2018