dear brother,
today is just another day, like any other.
the sun warms the grass on our front lawn.
we're low on groceries, so our parents are gone.
today’s the first day that you'll put your hands ‘round my neck,
and tell me that i was what made you do it.
no one here, not around, not a single person to check,
only me to console you when you say that you rue it.
and when they return, no pain shall be found,
because you're a good boy when others abound.

dear brother, i know
that you let your hurt show
by shifting to me. no one else understands
the weight of your looks, the strength of your hands.
push me down stairs, throw me at walls,
try to decipher this confusing world
by drowning out help and starting our brawls.
i'll try not to listen to the fear that you've hurled
at me because i understand that this is a wave
lapping at the peace you so desperately crave.

dear brother, it seems that you are odd.
when others hurt others, we say they are flawed,
but you just can't help the things that you do.
i used to blame hate, but i know that's not true.
i'll never comprehend the life that you live
because i'm neurotypical. ease is all that i know.
but you are not me and have nothing to give
when society asks you to not let it show.
so fists and fury will give you your vice,
even though our joined suffering is its final price.

dear brother, we never were born to be strong,
but i've been for you through these fights all along,
because i can mend my mind when it needs healing,
but yours is too different to cope with the feeling
of lost, of love, of clothes that you wear,
and maybe it's true. maybe this is too much
for me to sacrifice but you know that my care
is all that i offer when you lose your touch
with reality. i stand to have much to lose,
but we've found out who's more likely to bruise.

dear brother, perhaps i never will be
able to say the right words and let you run free
from the memories i've grown and the nights i have lost,
because all i can think is how much it would cost
to give you some medicine, make everything gone.
you tell me you're broken and must lose this life.
i promise you this, i will wait for your dawn,
and the day will come that you no longer have strife.
because, in the end, who cares who started what
when all that matters is who's in the rut?

dear brother, i'm no saint and i'm certainly no safety.
i overthink things and am often too hasty
to judge and to jump to conclusions about you,
but at times like this, whenever i drew
those lines in the sand, trying to push you out,
were not because i don't love you or **** you for joy.
i did not understand what you were trying to shout:
that your fights and your frights were your version of troy.
you hid all the unsure under abuse and absence,
and now, forevermore, i'll break down your fence.
(our shared blue-steel eyes, our disheveled brown hair.
i will try, dearest brother, to finally be fair.)

Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.

Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.

The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..

She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.

She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.

Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.

It is the weight in the pit of your stomach
Or on your shoulders
Or on your chest
It’s the invisible smog that chokes
From the inside out,
Or it’s a shadow
Like Peter Pan’s
It’s long hard cry in the middle of the night
It’s the fog around your brain during the day

Grief follows death,
But also life
To live is to mourn
That is the burden of the living
The price of growth

The fear of change is not the fear of what comes next
It is the fear of the loss of now.

IS LOVE A........

A word or an emotion?
A sentiment or a devotion?
A one night stand or a genuine connection?
A crush or an intense feeling of deep affection?
A fling or a long lasting strong eternal attraction?
A temporary phase or a life long, forever relation?
A fulfilment of selfish desire or a selfless gratification?
A conditional agreement or an unconditional admiration?
A tiresome process or an effortless search for a companion?
A fear of rejection or a a fearless acceptance and open conversation?
A circumstantial presence or a vow to be there through think & thin?