I was your Cure,
You were my Disease,


I was saving  you,
You were killing  **me.

I sit at I home trying to get my **** together
I am out in the public trying to show that
I have my **** together
Some days I have my **** together better than others
Some days anxiety floods my brain
with thoughts that
swishes swashes and sway
in random unpredictable directions
These days when my **** isn't together
I walk in public faking the best laugh and smile
Happiness is a decision
but my happy is an empty piggy bank
that broke before it was even used

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

I don't want to be here.
Or there.
Anywhere for that matter.
I just want to exist, free.

Like the wind taking fallen leaves
off into the sunset.
Or lonely ghosts coming to haunt memories of yesterday.

Aren't we all.
So lucky, if we can still find ourselves. Even after all the horrors time has brought us.