‘it’ he said
to my chagrin
a lying snake
he was akin

‘it’ she said
he called me so
i had been led
i fill with woe

‘it’ i heard
i’ll show him how
he is absurd
he’ll rue it now

‘he’ not ‘it’
boy has no class
he’s such a twit
again? i’ll kick your-

The yellow glow of passing lights
My Father, I, and the hum
of our car fly through the night
Look back upon where we’re from

I say to him-- I ask of thou
O’ Father mine, O’ Father dear
My hands they shake and tremble so
As the time to speak grows near

He said to me-- He told me this
O’ Child mine, O’ Child dear
To hear your words is true bliss
There is no reason for your fear

But Father mine, hands do quake
The memories they wrack my mind
My palms are damp my stomach aches
My tongue it renders these words blind

My Child now, please listen here
Don't succumb to despair
As the time to speak grows near
Just take a breath and breath the air

In golden glow of passing stars
My Father, I, and the hum
of the wind fly through the night
Look back upon how far we’ve come.

The tender tree-- o’ wooden babe--
Blooms fruit of Simple Thought.
Here sweetest wishes ripen
By uncaring hands ne’er wrought.

Tender hands tend tender tree--
How foolish they must seem!
Those who care for wishes;
Those who pray upon a dream.

So long sweet fruit did fall
Untouched but by the ground
Undreaming-- you are lost
By simple mystery confound.

Enter day one.
Post schedule change, nervous and afraid
of what the semester held in store.
The fear leaves as friendly faces enter
Great things are to come.

Pencil to paper, but unsure what to write.
Instead lead flows into art.
Art flows into a tentative journal entry.
Sowing the seedling
that would grow into pages of thoughts well written
if not spoken.

Time came and went
as feelings came and went.
Ideas changed less like the seasons
and more like the passing of the moon and sun
as they spin round the earth trying to catch each other in an eternal dance…
If not for the flow of feelings on paper,
My words would not have grown
into the flowering tree of metaphors and description they are now.

This tree gave fruit in the form of poetry,
never before willingly created by these hands.
Some fruit fell and became forgotten, to become the rich soil that feeds the tree
but others grew ripe after care.
One swelled larger than the rest.
Albeit it had the citrus taste of anger,
it was tender with honesty.
It was the one that gave me confidence in my words.

Exit day eighty-seven
After one semester, confident and sure
that I will continue to grow this tree,
even I am the only one who gathers its fruit.

This is a letter to everyone who said,
“You can’t.” or “You're not good enough.”
To all the dream-crushers and the life-suckers,
this is to you:

When I was six, I was happy.
The world was my oyster and the other kids were just,
playing around, harmless and innocent.
They didn’t mean anything.

Then I was ten;
starting to realize that those words weren’t jokes and games.
And although the light of hope was still burning, those words,
those blatant lies and stories that you spun purely to mess with my mind-
I was ten.

By twelve, I had gotten good at lying.
“Surely,” I thought,
“one friend doesn’t mean you’re lonely.”
“books are more fun than people anyway!”
“they just don’t have the time, it’s not that they hate you.”
“it’s not that bad, they’ll be back.”
“everything is fine.”
“no friends doesn’t mean you’re lonely.”
“next year will be a clean slate.”

Fourteen.
My mind was filled with Hate and Love and Death.
Love,
for the girl once best friend, now girlfriend.
Hate,
rarely for those who hurt me and exclusively for myself.
I blamed myself for those words they had spoken.
Death.
I was tired of the hate and the pain.
I just wanted to sleep.
To rest.

15
My mind is still plagued by shadows, but the is filled with light once more.
The Hate and Death still haunt like pale unwelcome specters,
but hope and home and love shine them out.
Love,
grown even stronger for the girl who has been there for me for hard day,
who I still sometimes cannot believe I am fortunate enough to call my girlfriend.
Home,
for the new friends with pasts like my own that care and support.
Hope.
Because even though this battle is won, the fight isn’t over.
There’s still going to be days when summoning the will to get out of bed is a victory.
There are still going to be days when people say,
“You can’t.” or “You’re not good enough.”
But that doesn’t mean there won’t be days
when a smile and laughter are true, and not just a mask for the pain.
When there are days I am filled with such happiness that I could

Live.

If there is one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s that
life is a series of hills.
For every up, there might be a down,
but there is always going to be another hill.

So, this is a letter to everyone who said,
“You can’t.” or “You're not good enough.”
To all the dream-crushers and the life-suckers;
this is to you:

This is my story, and its only the beginning.

Waterfall.
Life's a messy thing.
From birth to death to the little bits in between,
stacked up neatly as the Legos you played with when you were young.
But those pretty little bricks never were.
They were always scattered in a halo around your small knees,
like pieces of broken glass and memories.

Life is no straight line, no paved road.
You're given the basic floor plan for intangible dreams
then you are out into the crashing, beautiful disaster,
falling as you fly,
breathing in the mist as it chokes you.

We are glowing stars and specks of dust and special snowflakes.
Our burning light will warm you
if you take the time to brush away the cobwebs.
But if you hold us too close we will melt away,
leaving behind only water in the form the tears run that stain your face.

Don't cry, my love, for if your tears grow too deep
the waves of sorrow will sorrow you.
Though we may be falling as fly,
guided by shards of iridescent memories and a hopeful melody ,
all things must come to an end.
Do not be afraid to fall my child,
for I am at the bottom of the waterfall,
waiting to catch you in my arms once more.