.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­This.

I'm scared
I'm a mess.
Can you help me? Hello?
Please! Anyone!
I-I-I can't! say no.
My throat is raw
My knuckles red
My heartbeat racing
I scream
HELP! HELP!

Hello,
I'm behind you now,
we used to be hand-in-hand.
I've been listening to your stories
but now they're getting muter

You're growing up
I'm still the same
You're looking for the future
I'm stuck in the past
You're running forward
I'm dragging myself

Your figure is disappearing,
You left me behind.
I can't see you now.
Silence.
Good Bye.

I write to give a voice to the mute, the silent, the unable.
I write to paint the leaves on a long forgotten tree.
I write to remember all that has passed.
I write for those who can’t
I write for people, with people, to people, and at people
I write for a dream, to create and mold that dream
I write to argue with the known and to question the unknown
I write to give value to things that have been cast aside
I write for the joy, and the bliss
I write for the sadness, and the pain
I write the truth
I write the lies
I write for the perpetual and the transient.
I write, I read, I write, I speak, I write
The power my words hold, the beauty my words hold,
They empower and brighten this world.
They are the weapons I hold on my palette.
I wield them to leave an imprint on a white canvas,
A canvas, yet to be infested with my candor,
This world of taint
This world that my words, make drift away
Gone is the stress, strife, and worry
replaced by a fantasy, a story, a luxury
something reality can’t get a grasp on,
something that takes it all away.
My word is art.
My word is life.
My word can.
That is why I write.

I hate you.
You push me around.
You mock me.
You say that it's only for my benefit.
Do I look alright to you?

You insult me.
To push me forward,
thinking I'll do just what you're asking for.
You say you love me.
Does love feel like this?

Does love feel, as if every single day.
I'm the one feeling guilty.
I'm the one who gets hurt.
I'm the one who has to keep trudging along,
on the sharp glass of your broken dream.

Must I walk the same ****** path that,
you so kindly laid out?
I don't care?
I keep pushing these feelings down.
Smiling, joking acting like it's normal.

You think you know me.
Do you know what I feel?
You feed me your pointy lies.
I can feel them, scratching my insides.

I bleed and slowly I unravel.

My arms flail around, my legs kick as I try,
Try to reach the surface.
As I try to get out.
I claw at the water,
doing anything I can to
propel myself out of the water.
You stand there.
Oblivious to the water,
you don't see it.
"Stop acting! It's nothing!"
My tears join the substance around me.
You don't see them either.
Can't you see it?
My voice squeaks.
You can't hear the sound of my cries.
My vocal chords muffled by water.
I sink further and further in.
You stand on the land, shaking your head,
disappointed.
Weak and tired, I stop wasting my energy.
My arms shake, trying to reach out to you.
You offer no assistance, thinking that I can just
do it myself, that I just want attention.
Instead the cold hands of darkness close my eyes,
and pull me further into its arms.
How do I get out now?

Sitting there looking at that window,
I wonder.
What do you see?
The trees of a jungle, vines hanging down.
A peaceful green sanctuary.
Exotic birds, chirping and flying through the air
in a whirlwind of panic.
The roar of an airplane passing overhead.
Screams cutting through the air like a knife.
The warm metal held tightly on your hands, fingers on
the trigger.
Looking down, at the jungle floor, you don't
even flinch.
The jungle floor, drenched in blood and the
bodes of the fallen.
Death, its stench wafted in your nose.
The image fades away,
to a bright sunny morning.
The tree branches swaying with
the soft breeze.
Your gaze shifts to the two backpacks.
Long black hair swinging back and forth.
Muted laughter ringing into
your silence.
Your grandchildren,
walking off to school.