I wish that joy etched it's name into my bones, the way despair does.
Happiness is flighty and wisp-like,
While sorrow sinks and clings to hope until it erodes it all away.
Exuberance doesn't follow one around for more than a day, a season, a minute, yet depression can stalk it's prey for a lifetime.
My main thought is that, if joy is so good, why does it leave so quickly, and if despair is so bad why do I cling to it so tightly.

"Nobody the dead man,
"Nobody the living.
"Nobody is giving in,
"But just nobody is giving."

I want to be
in your arms
and I'm in the mood
to hide from the world.
people think they're friendly,
they just end up scaring me.

I want to hear your voice,
I want to laugh and talk about everything,
missing you is difficult,
but if this is the worst trial or tribulation,
I've got this in the bag.

loving someone should be easy,
you make it as necessary as breathing.

these tears in my eyes,
are no match for the smile
your laugh puts on my face.

I'm holding on through frustration,
and blinking back tears.

i am a nobody,
and i was told nobodies don't have homes.
but i am a nobody
with a heart and home
all my own.

(if home is where your heart is,
then my heart isn't quite home.)

.

When dark clouds collide and
thunder erupts on shaken stares,
rains fall in unrelenting sorrows
along bramble thorn threads,
screaming leaves crash
into a frozen ground
of broken branches
and disgraced smiles,

as cardboard condos
dot the litter strewn landscape
and graffiti drips
in tobacco stained puddles
at the feet of those
standing in an endless line
for bits and scraps
of the life they once knew,

while sons and daughters
face the monsters drugged
by beliefs conjured
on sand blasted battlefields
and bibles of their own deciphering,
bridging the elongated gaps
between lies and promises by those
disguised in designer pantsuits
with fingers crossed
behind their backs

and children have secrets ******
upon them through filthy fingernails
hiding under bed frames
of rusted iron and disgusting touches,
silenced by the horror
of squeaking hinges
and foot steps in the hall,
crying for mothers who don’t believe,

the tears of a poet will be revealed,
bleeding through the page