She was a delicate flower,
That had yet to be picked.
He was the vicious wind,
That torn away all her petals.
Her happiness soon became
the victim
Of his gusty blows
Now,
There’s nothing left
For her to show

The captain held the wheel against the sea
His sails were gashed, but maintained their integrity

And so the vessel found its weary peace
in swaying waves where the birds feel less wind than breeze

The splintered wood would hold its bobbing form
until the husk could be retooled in the home port

And though the repairs will handle new storms,
battle scars of yesterday shall remain stalwart

Lest the ocean deep claim one more casket
of sailor’s lives, goals, and dreams before the maggots

I wear my heart on my sleeves.
As in the cuts that bleed.
Where everyone can see that I´m damaged.
How I´m broken,
ruined,
to pieces.
One can never fully recover.
As my cuts turn to scars,
my sleeves will still,
never be the same.
As the same for my heart.

Men think I am so damaged and
they attempt to fix me.
I don't want to be fixed.
I want to be left alone.

                   -H.P.