Another sunrise and another sunset,
another pair of eyes filled with regret.
Who’s waiting for hope and luck to arrive at their front door,
but even if it came who’s to say they wouldn’t still expect more?
And would we even cast any blame,
if you’re angry that tomorrow came?

Time is cruel and time is no friend;
half were in school; the rest just trying to meet an end.
As a sun will set a newborn life will fade,
with moments you can’t forget
and one’s you would never trade.
Its hard not to feel the same
to be angry that tomorrow came.

He said take a note and give me five
“no one gets out of here alive.”
Who do you want to be for the rest of your life?
“Just a reminder, you don’t live twice.”
They tell me to grin my teeth and bear it
soft demeanor but eyes like a knife.
It’s clear they don’t want me to share it,
my collection of troubles and strife.
They’ve got closed eyes and plugged ears,
talking over each word I try to speak.
While it all feels like endless years,
in truth it’s only been one week.
And the reality of it is actually quite tame
but still you get angry that tomorrow came.

It’s a hazy afternoon with the sun in the sky
and I’m standing in the gloom of someone else’s goodbye.
And I could paint a thousand pictures
and never get the landscape quite right,
just like adjusting and fixing the fixtures
but never obtaining the perfect light.
It seems so insanely mundane,
but I’m trying to not be angry, that tomorrow came.

You can’t cleanse the bad from the good
there will always be residue permanently,
and it’s not so simple to gain some wood
you’re always going to have to cut down a tree, eventually.
Make sure the earth will burn, with an untamed flame
The world continues to turn, regretful that tomorrow came.

They always ask me,
Why do I wear that sweater?
They don’t realize,
It’s the embrace they failed to give—
The warmth, the tenderness,
The quiet support I carry.

My pillows bear the weight of my thoughts,
My silent, saline tears,
A quick hand to pull me from nightmares,
When the world feels too far away.

Razorblades grating the graphite
Sharpened to a point,
Infinite are the worlds pouring in torrid thought
Scribble them and refine
Render until the faces define
God of two-dimensional clay
Golems of creation,
My darling, characters.

i have this sinking feeling that i will never write again.

that all of the hurt
that i used to infuse into poems
has run dry.

i let the blood sit in my body,
simmer around my bones,
force myself to bottle
the trauma until it burned.

each time i wrote i rationed
out a little of the overflowing pain,
let it trickle,
and drip onto page.

but all at once i poured
crimson so now poems
exist - flooded red.

poems, whose words were so
deeply engraved in my soul
that nothing exists there now.

because they are living,
outside of me.

there is no life to feed the art.

just this emptiness.

and it should be freeing,
the purging of all this pain.

but it's not,
because i can not write
with any form of brilliance,
now that this thing has been
written out of me.

(should i have held onto the pain,
sacrificed living,
just to give art?)

She is arranging

the flowers, he likes it, then --


she throws them away.

Hanging in the gallery of my soul, decorating the walls. I’ve hung many canvases, some that you have never seen.

The wall behind me holds a portrait,  painted beautiful with hues of green and blue; this portrait shows things in life that have never been.

Next, you will see a canvas painted with a beautiful bouquet, showing all the things I’ve given away in life.

Look to your left—don’t turn too far, you might miss this tiny masterpiece that some call art. This tiny art piece shows the littlest kidney bean in the palm of my hand. What was once a dark spot on it, now removed, shows how much grace this little thing has produced.

As you walk by, you see a hanging, almost clear sheet; this is what it feels like when people look at me.

On the wall behind the sheet is a beautiful display showing many footprints of everyone who has walked in my life today.

In the corner, on a little shelf, a broken vessel sits. This vessel was put back together without its biggest piece. Though tattered and misshapen, this vessel still shows so much beauty.

On the biggest wall, by itself, you see a boldly shaped red heart painted so brightly; this piece shows how my heart feels when I am being loved just right.

So, as you have walked and wandered in this gallery of my soul, I hope you find comfort and know that not all of your precious art can be sold.

Whispers in the sky,
Dreams painted in soft white hues,
Nature's fleeting art.

and so began my mind diving; being
too sea deep – conscious thoughts
trying to swim underneath them; to see deep

and at its surface I had found…

us all being so beautiful – art in reflection
but we gaze at the bigger picture with ugly eyes,
an ugly gaze, with an ugly frame of mind

a tragic drowning picture, I could not see!