these cold white floors
are never enough
to mirror the purity of your heart
or to capture your hands' warmth

the intricacy weaved on your clothes
and patterns drawn by your feet
can never compare to
the dancing heart you wear on your sleeve

so don't look down
every time you fall
but hold on to their arms
and firm words and calls

to yourself, you're imperfect
to me, you're emboldened:
you don't need to win gold
when you're already golden

Naive boy of summer,
you are golden—
your hands have reached places
I could never begin to imagine,
the world is handed to you
so you toss it and turn it
without ever meaning to hurt anybody.
You’ve got kingdoms at your feet
and your name is sung like a tender praise,
a sweet taste in the mouths of boys and girl alike,
that is how you are loved so.

The world has hurt you,
and still the light in your eyes has never gone out—
a light that is enough to illuminate the darkest cities.
You live as if you have never been
wounded,
broken,
bruised.
You walk into a room
so nonchalantly, with a smile on your face
and suddenly there is a change of pulse;
a kind regard for everyone you come across shines through
that people would just love to be around you.
Without ever meaning to,
You have us wide-eyed,
in awe of who you are
and one could only dream to have their own time with you.

Yet here you are, in the night,
hanging by a thread,
you seek momentary bliss from a cigarette under the bridge
or from the bottom of a bottle;
in your beauty and stupor
you call this being alive.

And in your pain, in your adventure, in your life,
you have learned so well to love,
your heart has only grown so big
it takes all the joys and pain it can take...
but silly boy,
have you ever learned to love yourself?

ＪＪｓｂｄｋｓｎｄｋｋｄｍｘｍｊｓｈＪｕｓｔｌｅｔｍｅｄｉｅｍｍｍｋｂｈｂｘｊｄｎｘｎｂｄｊｘｂｄｎｘｎｎｘｎｘｎＩｍｓｏｔｉｒｅ­ｄｏｆｔｈｉｓｎｓｊｓ ｎｋｋｓｂｄｎｄｎｂｄｔｈｅｓｅ ｔｅａｒｓ ｗｏｎｔｓｔｏｐｊｄｊｄｎｎ ｚｎｊｓｎｎｄｕｄｎｄｋｄｋｎｆｋｄｍｓｓｎｆｎｊｄｎｄｎｎｄｂｄｂｄｂｄｎＷｈｙｔｈｅｐａｉｎｓｔｉｌｌｌｉｖｅｓｉｎ ｍｙｈｅａｒｔｊｊｘｎｘｊｘｊｄｎ ｍｙｋｄｊｄｖｊｓｎｄｊｃｊｎｄｎｄｎｃｎｘｋｘｎｋｘｎｄｋｄｋｊｄｎｓｋｘｈｊｓｈｄｊｄｄｎｄｅＩｍｓｏｆｕｃｋｉｎｇｔｉｒｅｄ­ｍｓｎｎｄｋｓｎｘｏｎｓｈｘｉｄｎｋｘｎｄｊｓｊｄｂｊｄｋｓｌｍｓｎｄｊｊｄｂｄｉｓｂｄｊｊｄｋｓｎｄｊｄｈｂｓｎｄｎｎｄｊｄｊｄ­ｎｄｎｄ


Ｙｏｕｌｌｎｅｖｅｒｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ ｍｅ

At age 7, I was guilty
when I accepted an invitation
to go into the apartment of a neighbor
He smelled of beer as he groped me.

At age 10, I was guilty
when I walked home too late
because I missed the train
He popped out of the bushes
exposing himself.

At age 12, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
tongue into my mouth
because I could not
get away.

At age 14, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
me to sit on his lap
while in my bathing suit
and I ran away from home.

At age 16, I was guilty
when my uncle convinced
everyone that I was a liar
and I quit school.

At age 18, I was guilty
when I gave birth to
my first child,
because I was ignorant.

At age 20, I was guilty
when I saw the cardiologist
in the reflection of a lamp
*******  and the
police laughed at my report.

At age 30, I was guilty
when my employer
trapped me in the elevator
to ***** me, because I
was his subserviant.

At age 36, I was guilty
when I earned jujitsu honors
but risked going to jail
for defending myself.

At age 70, I was guilty
when a neighbor brought
me fruit and grabbed my
breast, because I was alone.

At age 72, I am guilty
of being a ferule woman
for 50 years and for
NOT be silent!

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.

Am I really a poet,
If all I ever write about,
Is you?

What should I write with words tonight?
Should I write that demons dance in flight?
Maybe the stars are no longer in the sky
But, that would only tell a lie

Don't be silly the stars never left the heavens
Although I'm sure I saw a dragon with heads of seven
Those around can't see the end has come
Yet Satan has put my heart under her thumb.

Remember the days that my life was love
Now the winds have made me void of
So passionate was her smile
Now, nothing could be more vile

Through such a tiny void he came
Before long I was the one to blame
Upon the sultry eyes I never laid
All the cards had done been played

Search hard for the fiery grave
Each day is such a close shave
A gentle knock on the doors of death
Screaming impatiently for the final breathe


They all doubt that death will show it's head
I can assure that I will soon be dead
Tomorrow's light is not my friend
Nothing more glorious than the end

Oh the miles she rode upon her back
As my nights went to a deeper black
A few short days from now
And the last rows I shall plow

From the earth will come no seed
The heavens did make the heart bleed
At the days end there will be no harvest
Words spoke louder and louder that I do not jest

As the page turns
And the hearts burn
Layer the clouds ever so thick
Never more have I been so sick

Make the bed upon the hill
And lay the love upon the seal
To the fool it may seem to bend
Yet only one prayer needs to send

The arms will pull close tonight
Finally an end to the horrific fright
Give it all the final seed
For, in pain her heart will bleed.

"Grey, I wish I was you!
You're so happy!
You never give up!
You never struggle!
How do you do it?"
Daily, I get told this.
Always saying thank you,
as if my vocabulary bit my tongue,
spitting something else out,
someone else into my place.
My throat burns with screams
I can not release,
as if my own carbon dioxide suffocated my thoughts,
leaving a waste of capacity within the room.
This paint consumes my face,
concealing any trace of reaction
that I want to give.
That I need to detoxicate from my chemical unbalance.
I want to speak
but the flood of anxiety
grasping at my air,
makes me too terrified to be heard.
If I was heard
no one would believe it was me.
They would all look around,
and say nothing,
worshiping the silence I yet to give.
The consequences hide behind the lines,
that my mind can't bend.
The ventilation of my corrupted system
backslides into error,
shutting down the coordination
of my world to come.
Turning my everything
against the collapsing forgotten,
that I didn't raffle for.
I didn't sign up for this
scenery that rotates my sights to the
desperate calling
of a separating cell.
"You look so different, Grey. Have you lost weight?"
Oh, thank you for confusing
my sorrow
as cackling ossein
that lost all their symbolism
as a whole.
Why satisfy the ocean
if the waves tug between
the used and abused.
How did my appearance affect the way
vitality takes place
between the lines
of an open book
that I elope
with the desperation
of being found,
Being saved.
“Why do you sleep so long,
even though you went to bed at 7:30?”
I don’t sleep for the sake of depletion from the world.
Sleep calls from the numbness attached to my dangling limbs,
the rumination of death,
but somehow,
still isn’t convinced.
Why bother to contrast me
to the markings of the sun,
if only to be controlled by the skin.
"Sweetheart, why are you so quiet? You're never quiet."