You are the greatest mom I could ever have
You're cruel occasionally when you get mad
You are cold on surface but I know inside
Warm heart is cloaked with fear and pride
And I love you but have a difficult time showing
Settle for easy words I like throwing
I apologize that dark mood cuts deep
True intention was never to make you weep
Cigarette-scented squeezes cement bond
Cradled in arms I need no facade
Wisdom and warmth woven into your skin
Every night protect from the howling wind
Soft as a whisper your tender touch
Your edges are calloused but never too rough
You cast eyes away from my flaws
Silent disappointment inevitably cause
You hold me in the highest regard
Watching my crimson spill must be hard
The vividness of your personality
Like constellations coruscate originality
Yet not a single celestial entity compares to you
You are full of magic in everything you do
Displaying your radiant colors to all
No matter how heavy
Catch me when I fall
Believing to be beautiful
Actually am a sorry sight
Telling the truth when it hurts because that is what's right
You kiss wounds so that better they feel
Blind to my ugly parts as if they aren't real

Promise me we'll come out stronger
We'll reach the other side
One day we can claim we made it
Not that we only tried

And when rest of the world gives up
Want to be able to say we did not
We attempted again and again until we succeeded
Not just "gave it a shot"

Each of these struggles faced together
Not a trap
A test
Persisted by any means necessary
Unlike those "doing their best"

Sometimes I am all out of resolve
Don't think I can do this anymore
Right when I am about to leave
Remind me what I'm doing this for

I seem to cry a lot presently
Afraid of tomorrow without your embrace
Simply need to know you'll still be here
When storm clears and a rainbow takes it's place

My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could

I arrived at six for an early start,
only to find that a cloud had coughed,

spat, or birthed a fog onto the lawn,
midwifed by polearms of corn

under silver doctor's eyes
of cooling car. Beer tabs snicked

away as a giant cheerful beast
slouched and stalked us

with candy heart and whetted tooth,
snapping at pipe smoke enemies,

patrolling our hands with hope.
Lives roll along, we all find:

men and women having a hard go
of it in hornet houses, or exes

who tent us with doubt even now.
The fog has burned away and the lawless

calligraphy of insects weaves and wreathes
the rising air into which exits are engraved.

Time enough to slide the highways
back into the busy hours

of porcelain hearts - easily chipped
but good enough still for daily use.

I want to listen to the playlist I used to play before, when I would carelessly throw thousands of music tracks into love, connecting with another world, traveling through it, finding the people I had lost, and telling them what I couldn’t say back then.

I would reread Mauriac, Hesse, and every book I’ve ever read.

I would relive those feelings, the initial emotions when I first discovered Francesca Woodman’s photography.

I would go back to that café I used to frequent, where I would sink into sadness, have something to drink—even though I neither drank nor smoked back then.

I would find a small dimension for myself, just as I wanted, to escape sorrow. I would shelter myself there for a few years and return with a clear mind—free.

I’ve been
caught
In a long
forgotten
Snare,
its claws
Deep
into my
My flesh
scratching
And itch
in my
Bones
I haven’t
Been
able
to reach,
As I
sit and
Contemplate
Death,
the leafs
Of an
old tree
Slowly
catch
A ride
upon
The
wind,
And
touch
The
soil
In front
of
My feet
with
Nurture
and love,
Making
me
a bed
To
lay on.

how small
how white the child
skin rinsed with tears

salt in the wind

we're wading through water
climbing up trees
weaving through branches
and falling like leaves

you asked me if I've ever loved
oh, if you only knew
I feel it all over again
each time I look at you

there's no reason to wonder
"is anything meant to be?"
when we're way too high,
just hold me tight
and we'll fall just like leaves