Pieces placed on my palms
As I try to rebuild what I've broken
With glue as my conscience
Of never keeping anything altogether
My TOUCH
Being the wrong ingredient in a well constructed recipe
I never had to take accountability
Was deemed as the suspect already
Gave birth to my fear of touching anything
As my guilt surrenders to each piece of broken glass
And sometimes I wonder if I really love him
Or I found some sense of belonging within him
An expirement of my capability to hold something safe
To find closure in knowing that for once I'm not the danger
No sight of warnings signs
Upon the close proximity of my presence

Dear little one,
I wish I could tell you who you were meant to be,
but I never had the chance to meet you.
You were supposed to laugh without hesitation,
to dance barefoot in the grass,
to wake up without the weight of the world
pressed against your chest.

You were supposed to dream
without fearing the fall,
to believe in love
without flinching at its touch.
You should have known kindness
without conditions,
safety without apologies,
home without war.

But they took you from me
before you ever had a chance to breathe.
They stole your voice
and left me with the echoes,
turned your soft hands into fists,
your open heart into armor.

I search for you in the quiet,
in the spaces between my ribs,
but all I find are ghosts—
memories that were never made,
a life that was never lived.

I carry you still,
even in the ruins,
even in the spaces where childhood should have been.
And if I could,
I would build you a home in my arms,
rock you to sleep with a lullaby
you were never sung.

I cannot bring you back,
but I can promise this:
I will live for us both.
I will find the softness the world denied you,
and I will whisper your name
into the wind—
so you know you were never forgotten.

Beware the ides of March,
April shall weep with us,
And May might even;
Beware the hanging mist,
Avoid the creeping fog,
And move out from the shadows.

Stand before everybody,
Let them hear the truth of your love
And explain that, that love is of the people
Which are of knowledge.

The children of reason,
The kids of virtue;
The lineage of Logic & Wisdom,
Of Innocence & Emotion.

Be wary of the pats on the back,
But less of those open in their criticisms.

Watch the blade which does not reflect,
Whoever hesitant to display their genuine feelings.

Keep your family closest,
But merely watch their wandering affections.

Keep your friends closer,
For at a distance you seem as enemies.

I’ve been to a place at
The end of the sidewalk.
In between safety and  
wild debauched nights of
concrete and neon.

It’s a tabula rasa.
Pristine and precious.
I love it there
where creativity and
innocence dwells on the
backs of phoenix birds and
purple pigeons,
and on the slopes of verdant
valleys, lush with cerulean
blue ponds.

The trees all
gave and gave.
Dragon fruit and  
mangoes and
plants that taught me  
things.

Every fish and turtle that
I caught talks of Keroack
and Dali,
dreams, and love.
Serenity,
thick as maple syrup.
I met some surreal people
and creatures in this land.

And every **** one
of them oozed  
compassion and  
truth from  
every pore.

Hope, the word of relief, freedom, innocence
Helps overcome all challenges and darkness
A beacon in the night, a guiding light
That leads us through life's plodding flight

With every breath, it whispers low
"Cope with life, and let your spirit glow"
Hope is the anchor that holds us fast
A symbol of resilience that forever lasts

"I feel old", I said

"Time travel" they imposed

"How?", I exclaimed

"Fall in love", they replied