I write my words
to paint a picture,
one of hope,
of love.

I’d awaken passion,
if only I could.
We could walk on beaches,
listen to ocean’s roar,
dedicating that moment
to the rest of our lives.

I’d dry your tears,
write your pain,
your suffering
into the depths
of the sea.

My pen draws pictures
of swirling lines,
surrounding us,
holding us close
in each other’s arms.

I pray my inkwell
never runs dry,
my quill flying across
pages of love.

I pray my words
comfort you,
warm you
and fill you
with pictures of us.
Together always.

A descent into darkness,
this journey is not
welcomed.
My feet skid
as if on loose gravel,
I fall, tearing my palms
on shards of rock.

I don’t want this!

I fight, my struggle
ends in tears.

My only desire
is for peace.
Serenity now,
tranquility forever.

Your love, your strength
turns my weeping
into laughter.

You alone possess ability
to guide me back
to a passion for living,
for loving.

Answers to prayer
heal those wounds,
as slowly my path
leads to new beginnings.

I didn’t ask
for harsh words.
I merely wanted
a ball glove.

Bruises of my youth
will fade,
but memories of your anger
are seared forever.

I sought protection,
but only received excuses
which smelled
of whiskey and
stale cigarettes.

You called me
a mistake of passion,
you treated me
as a little lower
than your dog.

Why?
No wait…
don’t answer.

Your cruel interactions
led me to
a determined goal:
to live free.

I’ve turned madness into
bravery,
teaching others
to be proud,
walk up straight,
be courageous.

I want the world to know
my story, the history
which made me
who I am today.

I am yours,
though your denial
rots away your
last chance at decency.

I hope you see
where you’ve gone
wrong,
for I’ve told your life
through the eyes
of a child.

I never thought
to write again,
after self-doubt
and a loathing
for my words
infected me.

Knife wounds left
me scarred,
negativity to my craft
left me adrift
on a sea of questions.

But I healed.

The bleeding was stopped
by a true passion
for that creative sequence
of thoughts which leads to
poetry.

I healed.
I became strong.

I no longer feel
a need
to justify my work.

I write because.
Just because.

Memories of yesteryear
Our long walks
On moonlit paths
Not a care in world
Save for each other
Cautiously holding hands
Approaching love
Precious reminiscence
Everyday grateful
Solitude together

There is no such thing
as perfect silence
in my normal existence.

In waking hours,
thoughtful cacophony
fills my head,
filtering out the sounds
that really matter.

In my sleep,
dreams shout aloud
all the wonders
I recall from
distant memory.

But I came close
once
to attaining such
silence,
such aloneness.

Strong boughs held
me up, keeping me safe
from the dangers
below.

A broken grip,
losing touch with
the support
I forgot about.

Deafening pain
roared through
my very being,
muting my desire
to listen to reason.

I heard nothing,
except for my own desire
to live
in silence.