The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

For the first time in a long time,
I can say that I feel free from expectations,
free from limitations,
and myself.
I can feel the seasons changing,
and it's been a while since
I've seen the surface.
Felt the sun kiss my skin
and heard the wind whistle melodies
as it grazed my ears
on the way to the mountains.
The whole world is aching –
I know, but the rain never cared.
It reflects a time
when man was primal;
before he had a right to fear.
The rain whispers to me, 'I love you.'
I love you,
and I am not afraid.

So what?
If you don't like me
I like myself just alright,
Just alright to go on.

So what?
If you turn me down
I will go on living,
Writing more stories.

I just wanna be more.
I wanna live a little more.
I wanna explore a bit more.
I'll love myself a little more
To make it all fine for me.

I'm tired of writing about love,
So this poem is different,
Instead I'll write something new.

I won't write about it.

About how I miss you,
The feeling bubbling up inside me,
And spilling out in the form of nostalgia.

About how I felt when you said those three words,
My emotions clawed at each other,
Trying to jump in and play,
Yet trying to hold themselves back.

About your promise to see me again,
And how suddenly my mind was in the clouds,
Wishing we were there together.

No, I won't write about it,

I'll write about something new,
After wanting to write about you.

my hometown has a straight edge,
obedient new kid vibe -
one that other cities hate.
yet it resides in my heart,
its memories forming
the shape of who I am today.