When silence forms
in morning simplicity,
tracing tracks
beyond traffic jam coffee
and softer tones
to a new address
where afternoons are easier
and smiles come
from blurred windows
and online dreams,
remember to reach out,
someone misses you

You felt like you're the best with BMWs and Lambos
On top of millions
But i stare into her eyes
And i see a paradise that I've never seen before
There's much more to life than money
And they can say there's much more to life than her
But I'll choose to ignore them
In my eyes, they're wrong
Now i know my fires have stagnated for so long
Each and every song i listen to
Keeps me sane when the outside world
Is losing their bolts over simpleton issues
Something far less complicated than me
I never knew she could grasp me mentally like this
But I'm okay with it honestly
God made it this way for a reason
To go against it is emotional treason

Death stirs all ways like the wind
like something getting up to go,

and like the wind death doesn't
leave anywhere alone,

but where it is he travels with
whoever take his guiding hand,

gladly will I wait until
                     I die to understand ..

"Do you think less of me?"
"Why would you even consider that thought?"
He sounded offended.
"I guess failures make you less of a person."
He pulled me into a hug and breathed to my hair.
Shushing the chaos that took residence
in the crevices of my thoughts.
In that moment, failing seemed
to be worlds away.
He looked at me like I was magic,
and maybe I was.
Maybe I was too preoccupied
highlighting my flaws,
and there he was counting
all the amazing things
that I deny day in and day out.
He looked at me like I can do anything,
and maybe I actually could.
Maybe I could be invincible,
because it sure as hell felt
like it whenever he smiles at me
with the silent words saying
"I'm proud of you, always."
Maybe I am set for
greater things, maybe I am so
much more than I give myself
credit for,
maybe I am meant to be a
supernova in the vastness of his galaxy.
How could this amazing man
hug a ticking bomb as if
cradling a new born child?
How could he see past the
imperfection and still call
me beautiful?
How could a man like him
exist in a world full of
doubts and cynicism?
And maybe I am actually winning
in life despite the failures
because I have him.

Your pupils buzz like declining carnival lights, & your hands move like reluctance in high heels

Your phrases stumble out, knocking into that syntactical lamp post the keen call "tongue-tied".

Your shoe laces would make great ribbon pasta, with a touch of blood red sauce and olive oil tears.

Your cloudy curls hum with the activity of that misguided swarm the doctors call "agitated overthinking" .

Your arms hang long, draped with the golden moss of pubescence, weighed by the leaves & twigs that scrape the surface of logical revelation like harsh chalk.

Your voice, the uneven droplets from the faucet, wets the crevices of one's invisible compassion.

Your are the Princess of the Absurd, the red-coat orphan on a suburban, spray-painted Saturn.

you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer

your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15

your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate

your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony

your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights  & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite

you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season,  and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.

Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.

i am four. i don't want to be a princess. i tell my mother i want to be an astronaut. as young as i am, i am already wanting to be with the constellations. i am eight. at this point, i have wanted to be many things. the weirdest: a bee keeper, after a field trip to some zoo. i stick, however, to consider being a teacher; to children, i hoped. specifically kindergarten. or maybe a football player?

i am ten. i have it all planned out. i'll be taking up Mass Communication in college and i'll work as an author, or a journalist. i consider being a newscaster. or a National Geographic photographer. i am fourteen. i do not want to be anything but dead. six feet under with my feet pointing the way the tulips grow.

and now... i guess i just miss how simple it all was. how i was so convinced i had my **** together. how there weren't entrance exams to worry about, or wrongly-chosen tracks and courses and electives to regret. because it gets harder to hold it together, gets harder to hope for the better, gets harder to love and live when there are galaxies upon galaxies calling out your name;

i want to be wide-eyed and four years old again; arms outstretched to the sky, the stars at the tips of my fingers. i want to be that little girl again. that little girl who was excited to get up in the morning and face what the universe had in store. that little girl who wasn't cynical for tomorrows she was not promised. that little girl who smiled bright in pictures, and actually meant it.