I wish I was a bird
Maybe a blue jay or a finch
because I could brighten the world
with my vivid colors
and sing peacefully
through the mornings.
Maybe I could be a heron
large and lanky
with legs that stretch tall
and hold me higher than others.
But maybe being an owl would suit me
those smaller would fear me
my majestic and glorious self
large fluffy wings carrying me
all through the night.
But maybe I'd just be a hummingbird
Small and fragile
Almost invisible to everything else
yet I'd still make such an impact.
I guess I wish I was bird
because I'd finally be able to fly free
in a way I could never do
without a set of wings.

I feel like writing
but what?
What is there left
to talk about?
Just about everything's
been said or done
at some point,
so what is there left to write.
And how can it be
that there are still
new combinations
for people to write.
So now what do I write?
Well,
I guess this will do.

"Don't touch me," I whisper.
Usually a phrase reserved
for those who have a reason.
Abuse, assault, or something along those lines.
Not for me
a girl without a reason.
Maybe its an anxiety thing
or part of the depression.
Or simply because
I'm afraid.
Touch is equivalent to affection.
Maybe I think I don't deserve it
or maybe I'm scared to hold onto it.
But nevertheless
you'd think a person would listen.
Back away or freeze
And decide not to touch you
because its not what you want
whether its only a kiss or hug
from a family member
You'd think they'd register a no.
But they don't
they surge forward
wrapping themselves around you
suffocating me until I'm gasping for breath
"Please don't touch me"
means nothing to those
who have hugged you before
because they think they're special.

What is love?
Is there really a definition
for something so broad.
I doubt you can narrow it down.
Which is why I say
"I don't know"
when you ask.
Because how do you know
if you've been in love
if you can't even define it?
Maybe I am in love
but how would I know?
How does anybody know
if they've ever truly loved someone?

I was an idiot
Blinded by smiling teeth,
A hint of red in pink lips,
Flecks of hazel dotting green eyes.
smeared mascara tricking me into thinking
That maybe you cared.

I haven’t written anything
Not in awhile at least
And for a minute
I think it’s because
I’ve finally lost myself
My creative side at least.
But soon I realize
It’s simply because
I’m happy.
The things I write
Are twisted and depressing
Sometimes too dark
To even represent
My true self.
But they were decent
Some even good
And it makes me miss
Being sad.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for
To publish my thoughts.

What’s the worst that can happen?

"Come, sit down." the healer says
as her patient gazes emptily.
Clinic was dim, table's a mess
"Here's a cup of tea."

The healer dusts her hands on her coat
stained from making medicine.
"What are you here for today?"
"Same as last time, but I have caved in."

"I know just what you need,"
the healer unsheathes a frame.
The patient woefully sighs and
sobs without a bit of shame.

"I can't look again, it reminds me of her!"
to a portrait of a mother and daughter.
"Don't worry," says the healer,
"Tomorrow, it will get better."

The clinic was her art studio;
the medicine were the paintings.
The healer was an artist—
an empath in broken things.

"Through art, dismantle your heart
embrace the facts of your pain.
The wounds of the past shall heal
and your love for life shall remain."

is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
              an
                  empty sting

when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
  and all of these
      illusions
          make you wish
              you talked more
                  in real life.