Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

Elsa is so kind
She always writes
Supportive comments

I send a hug
Through the web
To you Elsa

Maybe I'll give my pillow
A small hug and pretend
It's you

Well,
If that's okay with you

popularity never mattered much to me
i really just wanted to get through the days unseen
and even now, i feel like i'm constantly hiding
i try not to look in the mirror
so even i won't know i'm there
the only person i ever wanted to see me left and broke me
she took every part of me that mattered and left it shattered
and i don't really care if anyone else ever looks at me again

Why does every emotion live across the street from me?
I stare every day
over my morning coffee in this blank apartment
trying to stay awake,
alive.
And the apartment across the street has a window,
an open window,
and I spy inside and glimpse the colors.

I remember having those here living with me.
How though
can I trust memories of feelings I've forever lost to the next building?
Can I?
I feel their echoes.
But when I go downstairs the pancakes will be flavorless and
blandly white with gray thick
nothing syrup
drizzled all across them. I'll have to eat
to stay alive
but don't think I like it one bit.

Would the taste of joy be less sweet if we didn't experience pain?

Would success be less triumphant if we never knew failure?

Would the innocence of a child be less endearing if corruption wasn't pending?

Would the right to freedom be less powerful if we didn't experience tyranny?

Would this poem be less impactful if we could not find an answer?