should stars like tears
fall to my feet,
i shall look up for damage done,
for eyes like mine
from which beauty may shine
simply seem to know none.

she writes the things that come to her mind in the middle of the night in bursts of blobs of bullshit.
the words come spilling from her mouth and it reeks,
like a trash can left unattended for weeks on end.
she wakes the morning after and reads it back in hopes for a glimpse into her psyche,
but nada.
nothing.  
her brain is a chaotic something that even she cannot make sense of.
her pretty words do nothing to disguise the true mess that lies beneath the surface.
new flowers on an old grave,
the facade
doesn’t mask the decaying body underneath.
the beautiful colors of fall,
failing to disguise the scent of the rotting leaves on the road side.
pretty words from a pretty mouth
with no purpose or meaning.

even — which burned this hearth
can not break free itself — from
a gin of its own tongue — since
an ember starts from the word "fire"

an opportunity are also promises
will test its own sincerity — on
stirring-fate in a hot cauldron
which vaporized a lot of anxious

"should I believe
on the potion i made — if
that shatter in this frame
is my own fear?"

I'm always nervous that you hate me
And I wouldn't blame you
And I try to calm down
But anxiety is my best friend
Who loves to pass me notes in class that say
"They hate you"
So strong so confident
Why wouldn't I believe them?
But if you do hate me you don't say it
If you're upset you never tell me
These are what I lay awake at night afraid of
Please don't leave me i love you
I tell myself to grow up and smile
But Anxiety loves to show up in my dreams
Nightmares
And I don't wanna bother you anymore than I already do
I love you please don't hate me

Large and unburdened
these hands show my true weakness--
spread across silken sheets
and the gentle touch will feel
as if desert sands were
wedged between the threading--
those threads do not breath as easy
as these hands of mine do.

They look and feel
as privileged as my ghostly appearance
would lead the World to believe--
even watermelons harden in the sun,
but these hands of mine
are closer to being ballet dancers
except they've never
had to learn to dance.  

They've never had to be successful
and I've been led to believe
failure was optional--
that with each attempt the World
will give me a do-over.  

Sometimes or maybe always
people eventually run out
of opportunity,
and instead they are left
with

...better luck next time.