tell me...

will tomorrow bring,
     all the things
i'm longing...
    stowed upon its elusive wings,
tirelessly beating
    and fighting
to show what's dangling
and hanging...
          ready for the picking...

                          awaiting...
such time so it could begin its need for unloading,
                   delivering
                                      and dropping,
its gleaming
                      treasures
on those who are deserving,
        in no way lacking
so they could be at the receiving
end of this pressurising,
           inking
                      of dwindling
                                        words...

carel­ess thoughts conceived only to
              fuel
           my deranged ramblings...
incessant mutterings of a shattering
                         mind...

           bending backwards, almost breaking,
         risking...
the chance of ever fully
                                          mending...

hopin­g and praying
   for a sentence that's pending
dawn's approval...

allowing
   the rising
of the sun...
                  paving
            ways for thriving
                                          wishes,
unbarr­ing
                  gates for soaring
                                                dreams, unlocking
                   latches,

relieving...
the heightening
                     anxieties of grieving
                                                        ­ hearts.

constantly whispering
                               utterances, promising
good will, happiness
                              and titillating
                                                     ­ sanity.

we're thinking...
     the earth is spinning,
         the moon is setting,
     so the sun must be rising
                         but...

             tell me,
                           tomorrow...

                                *is it coming?

I was your little girl,
Who swells in hives at the thought of bees.
And I wonder-
If my skin grew blue upon entering the world,
with that umbilical cord noose
Around my throat.

Would you have differentiated
fear
from
love?

Each sting,
a red handprint
Serving as a childhood memory
on our grand search for the big dipper
not through imprints covering my skin
like speckled constellations.

Could your arms have choked love into me?
As a form of protection from the world,
Or the terrifying thoughts in my brain.

Should have been my mother bird.
A broken wing no cause for concern,
you take your feathers,
mending me.

I was your little girl,
Rolling in the grass,
barefoot and happy.
Dad talks about me like I’m a pastime-
He can’t escape.
How does a father speak about their child,
in the same way,
people express distaste for smoking?


Hope he doesn't
think of me,
Like a painful itch.
When he chain smokes
His time left in clouds.

But I feel the resentment
And his suggestion that I bring decay into his life.

My dreams are often hidden truths,
Nobody, in reality,
dares to speak.
Admitting what he’s too afraid to say.
Last night his words stinging like a bee,

Body, you had no suitor
When honesty is lost
courage could not have been misplaced worse
  by anyone else  
than my failures.

We never belonged-
A wallflower
to the dance of life.

Happiness, you are too big of a concept
For this head.
I dreamt of you in dances,
Being dipped into the sunlight.
Reborn by possibility
and bathing in the glow
that could handle the portrayal of a shadow
so dark

Shadow, you will soon feed
And I shall be consumed,
just  as you wanted.
Light, I wish I would have asked,
For your blessing.

Yearning for the day
where a mother kissing
her child
does not break
the pieces of my heart;
I reclaim as my own.
Yearning for the hour we talk again
and you call me: ”your love"
Yearning to remember the feelings
of your hands lulling my weary mind
back into sanity.

Yearning for your lips to cover
what the past left on my arms
yearning for emerald eyes to feel like home again
Yearning for my father's heart to invite me
into his life,
yearning for "soul mates" to mean something,
the yearning that love won't always be absent

We’re always having these discussions about
God and
my unorthodox question:
if the stars belonged to the souls of delinquents,
Laughter filled the air, we were breathing in
while carbon dioxide was rolling off your tongue.

What a waste of youth,
I pollute this sky.
Looking at the clouds,
perceiving their shapes is such a bore.

Three minutes, twenty-eight seconds
Without a thought,
you offered friendly affection
, clutching the wheel.
Hands flooded purple in your tight grip

This felt out of character

you saw something that had to be fixed
in me,
I dozed off.
Vague dreams-
Swirled around the car
then
Debris buried me.
When I wake up,
Its fragments are cakes under my nails.

Had the world shifted?
Or is it these thoughts?

Has the world shifted or is it my thoughts?
The person sitting next to you is a shapeshifter.
That chip on my shoulder too big to be diminished
just wreckage, please, climb out
Crash.
Fantasized our vehicle rolling
Off the highway.
Encouraged you to go on
Flourish in the life you thought was impossible.
Old friend, what a delightful time I had.

Please remember a grin
and it’s childlike two.
Fondly recalling the first ride.
You had said,
“I’m glad you’re in my life.”


Sorry, I bummed so many rides,
Nobody trusted me to drive.
Sorry, I asked so many questions about the afterlife.

Old friend.

I knew you to be forever young,
mother permanently thirty-nine
calloused skin, brittle haired woman.
You'd certainly scold me for
my lack of bedtimes.
Mountains in Havre
captured youth-
and tea parties in the backyard
there's so much to learn
from your songs unsung-
lung cancer has a contrived way
of expressing its attachment,
it cannot live without you.
I know you to be younger than I,
forever.