one of these days im gonna fly.
fly away from this small town with jocks who take life for granted.
fly away from the people who hurt me.
fly away from judgement.
fly away from disapproving stares at the grocery store.
fly away from my parents arguing.
fly away from my brother's drugs.
fly away from my too busy schedule.
fly away from stress, from obsession, from therapy.
fly away from all that is wrong-with me, with my family, with the world.
oh yes; one of these days you will watch this "tortured soul" fly.
and when im gliding you, i wont be flying.
ill be soaring. and all you will do is gaze, open-mouthed and amazed at the simplicity beneath my wings

If only I could be
An artist gifted with a magical touch
Perhaps you would be
My most treasured masterpiece…

If only I could be
A singer bestowed with a golden voice
Perhaps you would be
My most beautiful melody…

If only I could be
A writer blessed with great illusions and fantasies
Perhaps you would be
My most valued written book…

And if just maybe, I could be
A poet rich with romantic lines
Perhaps you would turn to be
My most beautiful poem…

But these are just sheer imaginings, I know
‘Coz never could I be
Gifted with an artistic hands
And turn you to even just a simple craft.

I could not even be
As amazing as a songbird
‘Coz music in fact
Is not my cup of tea.

And neither would I turn to be
A helpless romantic poet
‘Coz I even fail to write
A rhyme of line or two.

Perhaps I would rather try to be
Living with the real, simply me
Other than dreamin’ to be someone else
I could never possibly be.

Yes perhaps it is better this way
’Coz I could love you in my own special way
Though I could never do good as they do
Still, I could love you as truly as I do…

Unapologetic actions
Like newspaper clippings
Litter my floor
As if to remind me
That things are written
By hands other than mine
My story has been set
By hands that existed
Long before my story was
Thought to be written
These hands have seen
So many stories
And some day my story will
Manifest
And its hands will craft and press
And ink and labor
The stories of others and others
Until the tally marks on the wall
Kept to count the stories I've pressed
Rival the clippings on the floor