to ache is an art.

an art that the human soul is deprived of.

an art that everyone;
                    from toddlers
                             to corporate *******
                             must appreciate.

maybe it requires abrasions,
                                    gunshots
         ­                               or mockery from
                                some ****'s mouth

but the glory
of the slow-burn realization
                     that we're ******
is the wake-up call
                     that everyone must hear.

and we're stupid enough to understand
that aching
              is like drowning
                          in experience.

and drowning
        is preferable in deep wounds
            than in the shallow waters
                     of a rushed healing.


and it's saddening
cause
as the youth's yearning
           for the morphine that
                 'self-care' offers

the more we forget to ache.

i want to spread love
as generously as jam
but there is this hollowness
i cant seem to fill
Esther L. Krenzin

its not your fault
you cant understand
my body speaks a language
your tongue cant pronounce
Esther L. Krenzin

her soul is parched
from wandering through deserts
looking for a oasis
she'll never find
Esther L. Krenzin

Aching void,
what do you crave?
What will satisfy
the emptiness that expands
and throbs?

This mountain
is not mine but I
feel the need to climb it.
It mirrors my aching soul
but I'm afraid to reach the peak-
a world of magic,
a world I have been
longing for.

more than every drop of water
in every ocean
more than every grain of sand
in every desert
more than every single star
in the night sky

i'm going to miss you
just as much as i would've loved you.

and this aching in my stomach is
stretching me wide open
and its beginning to hurt
and the future seems so elusive
yet it is here, and on its way.
every person i've ever kissed
has left a bruise on my soul
and i'm leaking, overflowing with
an indescribable empathy for
dancers with broken feet,
for lovers with mismatched tongues
for poets with thesaurus thieves;
the butterflies abandoned me long ago
and this echoing inside my hollow chest
those pretty sounds that
had me head over heels are
memories, only;
i am a memory, only,
hoping and praying i'll forget