welcome to suburbia
where numb is the new norm
stay awhile and realize
it's the quiet and never the storm
oh i'm not complaining
i'm just stuck here waiting . . .

there's a wisp in the shape of a father
and he stands outside my door each night
sometimes he takes human form
just to pour a glass of wine
i've started to see him
in the palms of your hands
and i am so shattered
when i look up to see it isn't him

i don't need to find somebody to love,
i already found them . . .

now i just need somebody to love me back.

us poets are far too arrogante for our words
we speak of intangible things
with such sincerity
convince our readers that we have discovered some sort of truth
tricking them into a false sense of understanding
we think our words and our thoughts are grand
grand enough to be shared and listened too

but perhaps this is okay
perhaps our vague writings of love
and power and greed and anger and sadness
perhaps these poems are not arrogante answers
perhaps we are not tricksters
maybe, just maybe, poets are the translators
of human emotion into ink

but what would I know?
i am just an arrogant poet

death is not a considerate creature

he takes what he wants
not just for spite but also for pleasure

death is a cruel comedian

the more you observe his acts
the more his irony becomes apparent

i wish i was a soft girl
the ones you find in movies
with tears of honey
and kindness that warms like golden sunshine
dewdrop flowers with ambrosial petals
blooming with unwavering patience and soft lips

instead i am just a girl
with a chest of steel
and i am angry
that i foolishly keep waiting
for someone to lift the curtain
and maybe see me
as a soft girl too

i just want somebody for some time
it can be a short forever
as long as you're all mine
whatever you got in mind, i'm down
just hold me for a moment
make me feel a little more found