Inside our secret confidence
Within the safety of self
We formulate words so false,
so tediously regulated,
to hide our endless faults.

But should we be found out,
Our illusions be shattered
The self-images scattered.
Social homage to live without,
Respect of friends floundered.

To us then, who tightly conceal
Reality from the brining truth,
“Abandon your games of youth!”
By breaking the terrified seal
That quiets a conscious mute.

Every waking hour, I’m battling insecurities
they turn my mood sour, and I’m begging anyone to “stomp them please.”
Boiling and ice, so hot then cold,
a mistake now made twice,
I should remember the lessons I’m told.

Please stop feeding me that riffraf
all the way up the *****.
Part of me just wants to laugh
‘cause I’m not sure what else to do.

It’s the little things that compile,
and create the big things,
still work to find a smile
and return back to the swings.
Boiling and ice, scalding to freeze,
a mistake now made thrice,
the right answer’s just a tease.

Please stop feeding me that riffraf
all the way up the *****.
To calm myself I run a candlelit bath,
but the tap is just pouring glue.

We all keep walking with broken legs
and keep carrying on bleeding wounds
Even the proudest person still begs
for life to grow from ruins.
I want to solve the mystery,
travel through time and space,
‘cause this reality is misery,
when I’m not in my rightful place.

Please stop feeding me that riffraf
all the way up the *****.
The ups and downs shown on a graph,
and the statistics are painfully true.
Start by telling me everything,
as I’ve got my own show and tell,
I’ll expose myself to your sting
as long as you promise to make my heart swell.

He can’t stand to love,
Yet he can’t stand to hate,
Afraid of exposure,
Its vulnerable weight.
So he builds up his walls,
To protect him from feeling,
Covering old wounds,
Which keeps them from healing.
And she sees he’s guarded,
Yet tries to unveil
The past he is hiding,
His secrets to tell,
Hating his walls,
But she can’t tear them down.
Wherever she is,
He just builds them around.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose ***** snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

[ Caution ]
[ Fragile ]

Our legs tangle together beneath tables.
Our smiles complete each other.
Your eyes are crystal blue.
Mine are a crimson red.

You reach over and caress my hand.
It feels good when you rub my knuckles.
You place a kiss.
It feels good.

But,
uneasy.

I love when you hold my waist.
We ballroom dance in the small kitchen space.
You rest your head on my thighs.
It feels nice.

You pull open my skin to look at my heart.
Your mouth gapes open.
Are you surprised to see it shattered apart?
It wasn't my choice, however.

Not mine,
not at all.

You hold red glass, cutting your skin.
Hurriedly you try to put them together.
I've been hurt before.
What's a little more?

Two pieces connect at the hip.
You smile through bloodied hands.
The pieces shiver in your touch.
You caress them with such compassion.

It stings,
but in a good way.

Slowly but surely, the pieces stick together.
A glass heart, torn at the seems.
You place it back, and stitch me up.
You smile at me, though your hands are scratched.

I kiss your wounds.
You cry for me.
I never believed in true love.
But this time, I'll give it a shot.