I bought a pack of pens
The nice ones
But I'm anxious so
I only look at them
I bought the pens yesterday
I've opened them
The nice pens
But I'm anxious so
I haven't used them
Even though I
Am very curious
About the ink
And if it
Flows fluidly
Or paints itself
In the depression
Of the pressure
From my hand
There is one sitting in front of me
A nice pen
I'd like to know how it writes
But I'm anxious so
I can't pick it up
It sits
I have so much to say
But I am anxious so
Maybe later
I'll have forgotten
What it was
I ever wanted
To write
With the nice pen
In the first place

broken homes
turned to houses.

feelings and memories,
buried underneath the deafening silence
of lost love.

no more warm fires
to keep hallways and rooms
full of happiness,
and free of heartache.

no more giggles echoing down halls
and bursting into the empty air of a room
to fill the void with joy.

no more angry shouts
that break the barriers of thin walls.

no more silent tears
that christen the carpeted floors.

nothing.

a home turned house.

wasted to the muted tones of a dead reminiscence.

When I was 8 years old I made my brother mad
He beat me up
Tackled me on the couch
Held me down
I didn’t have the strength to escape him

When I was free I went to my friend’s house
I cried
My friend tried to comfort me
But all I could think
Was how could he lay a hand on me?
I never wanted to go home

Because when I was 8 years old
My brother was 20
He was the oldest guy I loved
The oldest guy I trusted
How could he physically hurt me like that?

When you left you took my heart
And I let you
Because I thought it would be easier
Not to care
But it doesn’t work that way,
And without it I am so dead inside
My body is a skeleton
Filled with crumpled leaves,
Hardened flowers,
Distant emotions, and fading memories
They subside like tidewater out to sea
I feel nothing, am nothing
Not even a ghost
Just a barely breathing being,
Dying six feet under the surface