empty wrinkles in the sheets – secrets spilling from your lips;
speak of me in high regards, while digging for those words
“I love you,” that are so deep in my guts

but it takes guts to tell someone you love them, just as soon
as we’ve met – that reason that met my eyes, but is it really
meant for me – to see your real smile behind your mouth’s
many lies? we both desperately try to cut away our past,
though it's so hard, like fading your own hair the first time,
missing a few parts at the back

yet I could stare endless hours at your back – the depth of
your spine, in this empty place where you lie; in all awe of
you, I enjoyed my awe for the time. though time blushed
with me; each morning that I’m forced to leave your side,
we seem to grow even further apart

in place of our memories of last night, these empty sheets
have trapped a piece of both our hearts – but even in these
trap sheets, I still find it so hard to say, "I lov...

i can't
do
the things that i want

this phone
it pulls
me in
and doesn't let go

so
i write
these poems instead

one day
ill find
the courage
to get out of my bed

Here i am in bed again
10 feet in too deep again
tiny scars and fixed up cuts again
Paper opends it back up again
It Paints my nails way too red again
Bandages from friends again
I tear them off because they burn again
The scent of stress hangs in the air again
I close my eyes because it blinds again
Here i am im home again

think im going back to bed again

I lost my pens and papers
my notebook was lost to time and war
they are scattered somewhere
in my broken home
ink dried, pages ripped apart
by the winds or by the soldiers 
i'll never know  
they mistook my literature for laughter
and my house for shelter
don't find comfort in my bed
collect your warmth somewhere else
we may share blood but never history
for my story is written in black ink, not red

there are no beds
so they are contacting
God
to see if there is a vacancy
but it looks like
not even that entity
wants you yet

life gets so busy
and hard to control
so you continue your absences
you’re on a streak, on a roll

5, 6, 7, 8
does this effect my fate?

I know the answer, I know the truth
i always say I’ll work on it
ive said it since my youth

it becomes a hassle
a tough way to live
but you chose this life,
“oh what I’d give!”

but now you’re stuck
hanging by a thread
and your time is consumed by this
and the thoughts in your head

you can’t remember the last time you went to get coffee with your mom
or the last time you held sand in your palm
by the ocean waters, feeling the breeze
but now you’re here, killing yourself for your dream
and all you can do is remind yourself to breathe
and think of the things you want to achieve

push past your body’s limit
and start a new day
with affirmations
that don’t feel the same
as when you started to say them
you recite them anyway

scrunch your toes in your sneakers
and ballet slippers
my contemporary socks
and **** in my stomach,
under my tights and over my liver

the baby pink
so soft and sweet,
your teachers tell you “better turnout, is what you need”

sing to the radio
in your mother’s car
she takes a risk
and drives you so, so far
but god knows
your feelings are tightly kept
under your bed
in a glass jar.

they rot and rot away
until you open them up
and spill them into your notes app
or onto a blank sheet of lined paper

Those days when you just can’t wait to go to bed.
Not to slump down onto it in yielding surrender
or fall into it in tears, face first and meat red,
but to gently pull back the pillowy quilt
and the sheets, with tiny blue flowers,
flannelette, like a fresh work shirt,
so that when you slide in carefully
and make your cave in the sheets
the hug is work-arm strong
and reminds you of soil
and wheelbarrows
and gardening
and building
in the sun
as it sets…
and rises…
open eyes
still hugged,
you stand lightly
then soft pad to warm,
dark, sweet, pitch-bitter
coffee, and lifting the mug,
you pause before the first sip
of bliss, flooding deep in waking
flavours from magic beans grown
in ancient Ethiopian forests, noticed
by folk when curious goats turned zestful,
becoming a helper for evening prayer, to allow
hard work and intentional presence to earn well
your tiredness, so that you just can’t wait to go to bed…

The bed only knows the weight
That leaves it for, unknowingly, the last time;
The warmth no longer pressed to its quilt,
The down that will never sink again