Up until my insomnia meets me
I lied when I said I forgot
I was scared what you'd think
If I said that  I love you a lot

People have only cared for minutes
Leaving me to care for days
When I look at you all I can think
Is please don't go away

I can see me in your eyes
I dream of dreaming with you
I can trace your scars with mine
My thoughts are bleeding through:

My Talia, I know what it's like to not be seen;
what it's like to be alone in a crowded room.
For you, my star, I want you to know:
that no one shines as bright as you.

I can taste you moving on my skin.
My gasp is air you sustain.
hand in hand, under an umbrella
with you, I am safe.

we live in a world of concrete
who needs trees anyways?
we're happy with our gases
the ones that suffocate us
but not as much
as the fresh air.
who needs a healthy environment
anyways?
we have our hospitals
and cures to diseases.
peace of mind?
that's been eradicated completely
and quite successfully might i add.
because life's just not fun
without any complications
and in our case,
they're not even natural.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

I've been running on empty
Skipping on dregs
Cycling on morsels
Jumping on egg
shells


It's time to recoup
regroup  
renew, restore,
build more
reserves
Surrender to slumber
And swerve
Away from activity
Simply
pause,


And deeply breathe.

Stale cigarettes and old coffee;
The tastes of Europe.
The restless soul,
Came to America to better his children,
But don't you know
That change only hardens a child?
His wandering conscious
Will only find itself
In the land where you first saw his mother.
Where the two of you fumbled in muffled exploration.
We all return from whence we came,
The family-blood pilgrimage,
Stained with the ink of faded passports.

bred of depression, and hatred, and who the hell knows.
my mother is a *****,
and my father is a thief.
god. there must be a better word, what do you call a man
who takes everything you own,
through the act of convincing you to give it to him?
so much worse than a thief.

and me?
I've never known love.

I didn't know that your father wasn't supposed to call you a '*****' or a '*****' daily, just because you remind him of her.

I didn't know that your mother wasn't supposed to disappear for days, with men she didn't know.

after 21 years of begging for love
that I never knew I would never recieve,

I have just finally found what love truly feels like.

because I have finally learned to love myself.

I am only the unfortunate product of their conception.

this does not make me like them.

this does not make me who I am.

I am the woman who walked on the broken glass of a hate filled love, between two ******* up humans.

I am the woman who learned the art of steady feet, and came to the other end without a scratch.

because I know who I am.
and I love who I am.

and I am sure, if they gave me a chance, they could learn to love me.

but I don't need their love.

even if I wasted 21 years figuring that out.

Every poem I write
Is a baby.
Sometimes they're not as
Pretty as the lil'uns of
Our kind,
But loved none the less.

And they grow
Shorter
Smaller
Inwards; the opposite
Of a
Child's ways.

There are worlds
Within
Space.