Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.

A bouquet of flowers is a sweet gift,
peonies pink, roses red, orchids white.
Stems neatly trimmed, wrapped and delivered swift,
a sign of care, igniting new light.
But be wary of ill-fated decisions,
of carnations, tansies, roses – yellow.
Of clumped, wilted bundles, inner collisions.
A sign, that love will not be what you sow.
Maybe, instead, find the seedlings for you,
and remember every flower can grow.
Water, sunlight, and the will to stay true,
could be enough, to see them bloom and glow.
And while flower language loses voices,
remember your right – chase your good choices.

Don't look in the rear view.
It's there, in front of the windshield,
That looks to the immediate future.
I sit between the two,
With the past in the mirror,
And the simultaneous future
Over my hood,
And my wheels spin,
I'm moving.
Trees and people jostle
From front to back, continuously.
Road signs are a blur
As the air pushes the world aside
Like lace curtains,
Like love,
Enduring through unintended consequences.
A simple gesture,
A mustard seed,
Growing.
Like crystals, connecting,
Dissipating into one.

I should paint you like my shadow,
A lot of the black ink ran out of my pen
You reflect all of my dark smile's intentions,
Not to mention, I could dream of you
Like I had the control to it all, all in an instant;
-Our love was always lucid

A lie is an intentional mistruth.
It's when you deliberately try to get someone
to believe something you know isn't true.

A mistake is unintentional.
It's when you ***** up,
and usually,
you end up hurting someone
even though you never meant to.

It's when you let people push you
to do or say things you aren't ready to.

It's when you're still learning what it means
to dream, to live, to love,
when you try so insanely hard
to put it all behind you,
but you can't because people won't let you
forget the mistakes you made.

Just remind yourself that all people make mistakes,
and your mistakes don't define you.

******* up doesn't make you a liar.
It makes you human.