there will be times when
a quarter can make you smile
and days will be spent
poured over newspapers
circling with a marker that you swear
is filled with your blood
you won’t know who’s hands
have found your rib cage
or why they have to push so hard
it’s going to feel like you’re
climbing out of a grave dug far too early
and the next root is three inches too high
and you just can’t reach it
and maybe it’ll be easier if you just
fall
but when you hit the ground
your bones will be dust
and you’ll still have no where to go but
up
but you remember what your friend said
about how even earthworms can move the ground
so kick your foot into the dirt
and make your own stepping stone
fill your fingers with your own breath
carrying hope and everything you learned last time
so they’ll reach a little longer
you’ll see the light and grass will dance again on your toes

you’ve done it
you’re here

You don't see a tsunami coming.
I mean, most people expect to see a huge wave forming
over the horizion, something tall and towering,
gathering speed and even more height as it gets
closer to shore; a wave so tall it crashes three
blocks inland and takes the grocery store and Mr.
Potter's car out to sea. They stand at the end of
the dock, barely hearing the sirens, thinking it's
just a false alarm. Before they know it though, water
is trickling in at their toes, the beach is engulfed,
you can't see Main St., there's eight feet of water
on the ground, half the grocery store is torn
apart and Mr. Potter's car drags them inland as
they cling to it for dear life.
If they would have just listened to the sirens they
would have understood that something catastrophic
was coming their way. You don't see a tsunami coming.
You are not so tall that everything bad must tower
over you. There exists dark, there exists deep. And
deep will come for your feet and crawl up your body
before your head even realizes it's here. But the
people...the people who have been in one before
and survived know the signs. It's like an upward
blowing wind and ice water down your spine. That's
why they sound the alarms, that's why the blare the
sirens, but nobody listens, they don't listen because
they expect to see a big, blue wall in front of them,
they expect to see a tangable object, they expect to
see a face on every one of their problems...
You don't see a tsunami coming. Even if you cracked
the earth.

When you came over you said you liked the colors on the wall
I’m both happy and sad that you’ll never know they were for you
They bled from my fingertips that day through every minute of pressing and squinting and biting and flowing
The yellows, my breath still clinging to the words I never said
The reds, my blood still boiling
Blue, the tears I wanted to cry but my eyes were too tired to produce
The purple, the bruises I refused, ripped off my heart, my lungs from all the screaming inside
That day I breathed
That day I cried
That day I calmed
That day I healed
And that’s why those colors hang on my wall today on display ready for you to walk in and give them praise
They’re the very injury that we brought about in so many ways
And you say
they’re beautiful.
And what you say is true.

I have come to the point
and I'm pretty sure I've been here for quite some time
where I know what happened
but I still don't know
why
and that bothers me
It's like a melancholy voice that
drones
through my inner-ear
it sits heavy on every cell of my brain
so that just the thought of this confusion
breaks bones
So I want to know the driving force
behind these decisions
and wishes
and I want to know the scores
for how many accurate portrayals
are out there from family, friends
saying
"It was all you"
and Big Brother trying to keep me fed
saying
"There's nothing you can do
you're not accountable
do better for yourself
walk away"
But I'd rather stay
and I'd rather shout
till my lungs turn inside out
and scream at you that
I am not backing down
until I find out why
these people cry
these people die inside
these people play with life
Because I know there is a reason why
and there must be a way to make this right
and you can tell me so many times
that there is nothing you can do
You can say
this does not concern you
But as long as someone who is like me
a fellow human being
has to feel in a way they can't explain
separate from gunpowder and lead
this is my concern
this is my problem
because there may be something that I can do
to help them
and in turn help you
So
I want to know
I want to have a 'root of the problem'
I want to have some ground to stand on
and please don't tell me
I can't have the ground to stand on
that there is no ground to stand on
because I have seen the earth where you place your feet
and it is made of holes dug a thousand year's worth deep
and filled in
with my ground to stand on
and let me tell you that
it is time for that withering dirt to come back into the light
and you best believe I'm going
to fight
to bring it back
under the sun.

I'm in an airport. The walls are dark, burnt orange. The floors are grey. It's dimly lit, almost dark. It looks like a school. But it's an airport...but it's a school...
Everyone's here. There she is, and her, her, him...they're all here. All of them. Where are we going?
There? We're going there? "It's a class trip." But I don't have class with everyone here.
We're just friends.
What time is it? It's dark.
There you are. I was looking for you. Wait...who's that? Haven't I seen her before? Why are your legs covered? Your face looks mad...are you okay?
___

I'm in a hallway. A bedroom? My old bedroom? No, the airport, a hallway. Who are you? No, I know you, but what's your name? I forget.
You're kind. You smile, I smile, I know what you want to say.
We're in a hallway, on the floor. By the wall. There's a book, it's your book. "Read it." But when I look I can't see, the letters are blurry, the words are mixed up across the paper. Where are my glasses? There. They don't help anyway.
You kiss my forehead. I'm happy. I lay on your shoulder, leaning against this wall. A wall or a dresser, are we really in a hallway, and airport hallway?
You kiss me. You really kissed me, on my lips.
I'm sad. No, not angry...disappointed.
Not yet, I'm still with her. I want to be with her.
"You shouldn't."
I know. I don't want to. But I do, don't I? I look down.
I start to feel okay, I start to know what I want.
I look at you...
___

It's definitely a hallway now. This airport hallway. You're there. Where did you come from?
Don't get mad.
I know you're mad, please don't be.
Fine, be mad. At least he kisses my forehead.
Your legs are fine, you use them to walk away.
___

I'm still in this airport, only where everyone is.
We're leaving. We're on our way. Wait, my pocketknife. I can't take my pocketknife on the plane.
Where can I put it?
You're here again. She is too. You have crutches, I thought your legs were fine.
Can you hold my pocketknife? I can't bring it with me.
You looks so annoyed.
I'm sorry....
am I?
___

We're alone. We must be on the bridge, boarding the plane.
You look mad.
I'm confused. She left. Can we read the book again?
"I gave you a chance, you wouldn't."
No, I couldn't, couldn't.
You board the plane. I turn around.
___

My bedroom. My bedroom now.
It's light.

Life’s been rough lately.

I’m trying to tough it out.

It’s hard to get your point across, though,

when the ends of words start falling off before the sentence is finis….

All the great lyricists of the world
will always regard love as a rose;
beautiful and elegant,
its sweet aroma as dizzying as its
deep sultry red,
its petals as succinct and complex as
the layered patterns of admiration.

But when do they remember to mention
that to hold a rose close enough to
take in its delicate scent or profound beauty
one must hold it by the stem,
and if one squeezes, even just the smallest bit too tight,
the thorns smartly come into the skin,
and make the holder bleed their true self
onto the garden grass?