I will not
Breathe life
Into the past
Dead is dead.

she tells me
she’s in love,
all the time.

all with different guys,
all with different lies,
all the while,
the same shine in her eyes.

she says she’s in love,
and her love is kind—
though it is anything but.
i’ve seen the havoc it leaves behind.

she calls it love,
because she would
lose herself
if he left—
she could care less
for her kids
that would weep,
no,

their tears,
they could keep.

they were mistakes
she shouldn’t have made.
those children aren’t love
but the price she has paid.

my mother tells me she’s in love
one too many times.

i’d love to see her eyes
shine the same way
when she tells me,
she loves me.
the kind of love
a mother
provides.

the demons;
the scars;
they are all real,
yet they seem to say
that they are only
living inside her head.
they say that insanity
has got the best of her,
when in truth:

it was reality that drove her under.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.