i read a poem that made me question
the things i've been calling poetry
it made me feel that what i write
simply isn't enough

i could do better

the poem was about a woman
and i felt whole
and the words weren't for me,
about me,
but i felt whole
in ways i can't explain
and i'll never be able to

but i thought to myself
that this is poetry
and this is what words
are supposed to do
they're supposed to make
you feel things
regardless of what
and i kept wondering
if my words
have that effect

i want people to yern,
long,
hope,
survive off my words,
devour them
and i want my words
to leave them longing
and hoping for just a bit more

and i read this poem not once,
not twice,
but three times,
eating up the words like they
were the last meal on earth
and i felt whole

she was always looking away
at the river, the sun, her phone
never did her eyes meet anyone
else's, and she never smiled

she was sick and fragile
and never smiled
but people loved her anyway
as they hugged her and held her close
she never smiled

she'd answer their questions
in the least personal way
and they wouldn't ask
too many questions or
anything that was personal
and she'd ask many questions
leading into personal parts
of their lives

she sat alone
with her hair hanging like
a curtain in front of her face
hiding her brokenness from the world

worst of all, she hid behind this falseness
that she showed off to the world
a blank mask that held everyone
at an arm's length
and she never smiled

Anticipating
Another second
Another minute
Another hour

Tick...
...Tock

For the clock to tick by
Gently
Solemnly

Tick...
...Tock

For time to pass by...
...Quickly
...Aggressively

....Tick
...Tock



*­Till I can breathe again.

how many hearts
would be broken
invaded, raided
infested, overrun
forayed into

for all the
wrong reasons

if every time you say
"I love you"
you don't mean it?

because a betrayal
of those three  words
can make you a
serial killer of hearts.