Days like this
With the rain pouring non stop
With the clouds hiding the bright sun
Filling the mood of the day with such sorrow
These are the kind of days
That make me think
About who I've become
Who i was
And how I can get better

People always fail to tell those in need
That things dont get better
But that they will always get better

Nothing is forever
Not even the blissful memories you have last forever

One day that one person you were so head over heels for will be a simple memory of a first love

One day
You'll regret giving yourself to that freshman year crush of yours

One day
You'll look back to everything you accomplished

And realize you made it through all the rough patches In your life

To my child:

In your rash attempts
to fight and secure yourself
a piece of the pie,
I hope you may be patient
and offer to those
who have yet to taste it.

I don't fall down
I get up everyday
With my eyes red
Filled with dreams night and day!
I walk upon my path
The one I've chosen to go
Not listening to the society
Going where I go
Before someone stops me
On this journey called life
I sleep upon my bed
Eyes shut feeling low....

Many of the most profound pieces of poetry
May not have been dreamed and transferred
In particular manners professional,
And many of the most practiced writers
May not have been as noble nor indicative
As their readers would imagine and preach.
This concern thus produces a humorous conclusion
That through probability, possibility, and realism,
Many of the greatest and most inspiring words
Passed down to our misguided generation,
May have been conceived, scribbled, and explored
From the humble origins of atop a toilet.

A dear friend once asked
For memory's sake
That we share a picture.
Upon such request,
Camera in hand,
I intentionally left the cap on the lens,
And took the blank image
Remarking,
"Now you'll just have to remember."

He took off his glasses
to mutter away the world
To make sure that
everything, not just his
mind, was blurry, out of focus.
Because that’s how he felt.
He felt like he couldn’t wait
anymore. It was agony,
to be always waiting.
Patience only mattered
when he knew what
he was being patient for.
But now. Now, he didn’t know.
Or, he didn’t want to know.
He wanted so badly to
feel what he did in the past,
that he’s not willing to
imagine anything else being
the same or better. He’s
addicted to the taste of
sadness. It tasted like
the back of your throat
after you’ve just thrown up.
It tasted like stale air.
But for some reason, that
comforted him. Maybe a part
of him was right, and he took
solace in that. He wants to cry
he knows it. And he’s always been
on the verge of tears, ever since
that day. He’s not sure,
that’s what he keeps telling himself.
One day he will be, he hopes.
But right now, maybe he’s
okay with crying for another night.
Maybe it’s okay to be sad for another
week. But maybe it’s not. It’s been
four months now and he’s back to
writing at night, hoping that one day
someone will see these and say,
“I understand his feelings.”
Because he feels like the only person
that really understood him, isn’t there
anymore. That being forgotten is just
another possibility. Because that’s
what he’s always been afraid of.
Being forgotten. He remembers
how hard he cried when he lost
his mom at the mall. He was only
five years old, and the mall was so big.
He cried for what he thought was hours.
Why is he so scared of being forgotten?
Maybe because even if people promise
you that they won’t forget you, there’s
no way you can ever be sure, and that
uncertain feeling is what makes you
afraid. Maybe because if people
remembered him, maybe if they did,
then maybe he truly existed, and it mattered.
Why does living really matter? Why is
it that he’s crying? Why is he crying?
Why can’t he see the screen anymore
and why can’t he stop crying?
He can hear the rain outside.
It’s loud and broken.

Through sweat-filled labor
and unrelenting love,
my patient parents
meticulously molded
strong shoes to fit,
making each effort efficient
and all materials durable
so that if I were to walk
the path full of broken glass,
my skin would not tear,
my spirit not diminish,
and through their sacrifices,
prevent my blood
from staining the street.