We’re not entirely sure, you’ll need to come back.
The letter resting in the dark caverns of the metal mailbox waits,
Waits to scream, to taunt.
You’ll need to come back, and maybe,
Just maybe, if you’re one of the lucky ones,
You’ll get to stay, keep us company,
It gets ever so lonely, here in this room,
Where cold tile floods, and plasticky lights
Introduce long lost friends, fear, who mingles, dancing with pain.
Room 341, the stay you’ll never forget,
A tantalizing visit, leaving you with all but a tinge of regret,
A small morsel of remorse.

The spots are frightening,
clouding, blocking, scratching the sunshine, that is practically begging to be let into a spotless mind,
seemingly not eternal.

your mood is volatile, hard to tame.
it shakes and trembles, reminding you of a weakened hand
and a weakened will.
the satisfactory pain that comes with understanding just how alone you really are.

the few happy moments are not lasting, unsatisfactory and only fulfilling your appetite for validation briefly.

you assure yourself that you are not alone in your struggle.
that these feelings of loss and lack of understanding are temporary.
hopefully, in time, you will learn to brave your mind.

your will, it will grow strong.
you will learn to prioritize those who prioritize you.
you will learn to love yourself, just wait.
I promise, I speak from experience, it won't be long.

I have a drawing on my wall. Some faceless figures with lines showing the different ways they’re making their lives all the more miserable.

One figure overthinks, its thoughts scrambled in the surrounding air.

Another compares, each thought taking sweet time to indulge in the previous happenings, looking for faults and reasons to give up.

A third figure is caught in a haze of what could be, all the what if’s.

This fourth figure is  sometimes confusing. The figure is        projecting. Projecting doubts, fears, cries, or thoughts, hopes, prayers?

the final figure longs, hopes for the future and the changes it will bring. This figure is the weakest of them all, not taking the present for what it is, and wishing desperately for escape.

I’ve been all of these figures, black lines on a blank piece of paper waiting for some color and a face, a chance at accepting the world for what it is.

The sun watched as you stood silently,
On that hill.
Rushed by a ticking meter and an impatient daughter.
In the backseat of the cab sits your mother, clutching a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it.
Rushed by the cough of a man unbeknownst to your struggles, unaware of your toil Unaware that you have crossed seas just to stand here,
In a spot where you may not even be welcome,
And the only thing coming close to resembling approval is from the threatening sun, Glaring down at you from the sky, a magnifying glass,
Scorching warnings in a dark patch of grass around you.
It began to sear at your pale skin, acknowledging your nervous presence.
A small sparrow perches on a nearby tree, your focus gently slides towards him,
His gentle song penetrated the silence, and you were grateful for some excuse to shove aside the tears that welled up so tenderly in your eyes.
Pain,
Remorse,
The aching sensation that ebbed and flowed through your body was temporarily put on hold.
As the sun beat down on that rushed reunion, you felt a lifetime's hurt, Yet remain grateful to that little songbird.