Just because you're still breathing,
Doesn't mean you're alive

Just because you're still walking,
Doesn't mean you've known your route

Just because you're still feeding,
Doesn't mean you're always full

Just because you can see,
Doesn't mean you understand

Just because you can feel,
Doesn't mean you’ve known what hurts

Just because you've been to places,
Doesn't mean you were present

Just because you're silent,
Doesn't mean you're vigilant

Look into yourself
Have you ever thought if you are whole or broken?
Listen to the stillness that speaks around you

There’s a voice louder than that..
Inside you, it matters.

Listen

My heart is a place you write your poetry.

A poem you strum for me
A melody to your remedy
You sang in my heart so passionately
You’ll keep yourself afloat

Sweetheart, my heart is a place you write your poetry.

A place you’d bleed and let fears be the reason you gather the strength within you

A place you will fill with tears, not buckets but oceans of withering waves scalloping your dreams and still be able to breathe

A place you let go of your mere self and tell your broken pieces you’re whole, you’re only hungry for love and more, never enough

A place you will go to often, without thinking, they’re familiar, so comfortable with life uncertainties, you’re oblivious but that’s okay

A place you seek for yourself from yourself to have a better view of who you really are, your reflection and this mirror, fragile and strong

A place you share your hopes and dreams and giving up will never be a part of this

A place you fall and fight; your ups and downs they compliment, and you can stand on your own because you believe,
you’re homed.

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

I will always be a woman of wounds

And maybe these wounds
Are the openings
My heart deserves

And the little dark secrets that it preserves
Are paths that only reserves
My heart's truest devotion

To be free
Free from myself
Only for me to go back to myself
And wash myself for myself

Only with your soul
You can transcend the truth

Only with your soul
You can bridge the broken

Only with your soul
You can find your means

Only with your soul
You can know the space between you and yourself

Only with your soul
You can go back to yourself

Because some is awake

But not all is alive.