set up a chair
at the end of a tree lined street
not just any tree lined street
the street with the nice houses and cars
the street where the rich have "made it"
sit at the end of that street
with the cherry blossoms or jane magnolias
or whatever
and watch every one of those "successful" types
as they walk down their tree lined street
from their house to their car
as they walk by you, through their tree tunnel
watch carefully their faces
the trajectory of their gaze, tightness of their lips,
the experience woven into their furrowed brows
watch them hurry through the world's dream tunnel
a persons state of mind can be brought to light by a tree
the beauty of bloom, falling petal, hugging branches
it jolts excitement through human sensory
and so, when you read the lined, tired, hurried
faces- the dysphoric vacancy we've all carried
at some point
smile
create space
share love
just for a moment

when i asked if he had any tattoos, he said
not yet. but if i do, it’ll be to do with God or you.

it has been
76 days
since he
scratched
out
my name
from
his heart
and moved
onto
you

it’ll be to do with God or you.

i wonder if that line gave you butterflies, too.

It is the monsoon season
My thoughts today wander
Like wayward clouds in the sky
Making me wonder

Will it rain wisdom?
Or will it rain hope?

Or will the dark clouds
lift?
Making my spirits blithe?

So here I am.
    Within your heartstrings.
     I like to think I flow through your mind like blood flowing through your superior vena cava.

Constant;
And non-chalant.

And there you are.
                    Rolling and rolling and tumbling around the empty train station in my mind.

Like a tumble ****.
Where did you come from?
Were you ever really mine?

What is the color of my eyes?

Grey, like the clouds.
At least that's what they tell me.

But you aren't here very often and only sometimes do you come around with your talent of using words to your advantage even though I'm the only person who sees through your fake persona and too long brown lucious hair.

But this one's for you.

Just like the one I wrote when I first started but that was a different story.
That had a different meaning.
A different message.

That one said;

"I love you."

This one says;

"I still do."

it wasn’t love
rather lust
a gentle hand
a breach of trust
a quickened breath
an easy lie
a dance with death
a hard goodbye.

If you have something to say,
say it with conviction
believe in the words coming
from your mouth
because once they're out
they don't go back in
and no mouth to mouth
will resuscitate
a bridge that's in flames
and as long as you
meant every last word
every last volley
shot over the walls
built from years of
friendship
then no blame can be sent
your way
but do not be alarmed
when they come back around,
a little crispy around the edges
all shrieking like demons
faces black and sooty
and eyes red from the smoke
that rose from the fires
that only tears could put out
and they've got a hot coal
in their hand that they
don't feel and they
want to see you burn.

All that makes our demons
scary is who they're
throwing fire at.

at age 10,
my mother pointed
At the small birth mark
On my left knee and said,
"Someone's going to love
You for that one day."

At age 16,
I told her that a boy,
One far away,
Told me I was unloveable.
"He couldn't be more wrong,"
She promised.

At age 19,
She picked up my prescription,
And cried,
"I don't want you
To get your heart broken,
Mary." She sobbed.

The empty encouragements mean nothing,
When a daughter has decided
That the need to be tragically beautiful,
Is more important than the need
To be exceptionally loved.