who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you

i don't know if i'm phrasing this right but no one in my house validates my feelings; they always kind of brush them off or make me feel like i am irrelevant and don't matter and you know what? i think that is one of the main things that has ****** me over. i watch movies and tv shows and see how ******* compassionate the mothers are with their children and i have never once felt like my feelings even matter to my mother or that she even gives a **** about me or the relationships i have. just because i have only been on this earth for sixteen and a half years doesn't ******* mean i don't have feelings and problems or that i can't feel hurt or depressed or anxious or in love. that doesn't come with age, it comes with being alive. i am just as much of a human being as you are and it breaks whats left of my glass heart and she doesn't even care enough to get the dustpan and sweep it up into the garbage can.