I know what you are thinking.

"Oh, look at this, another cry for help disguised as a poem"

I wish I could say you were wrong.
But I wouldn't continue to write if my cry was answered.

This is for the people who leave me on the floor and judge my judgment as if theirs is any better.
This is for the people who can't see things from my eyes but see with their own that I am in pain.
This is for the people who ask the three dreaded words and believe the lie that I tell them
This is for the people who tell me I won't make it as an artist or a revolutionary but instead become the nothing that I have always feared.

But mostly, this is for me.

I judge these people just as hard as they judge me
I see these people through my eyes but fail to look through theirs
I beg these people to ask and I get mad when they don't have faith in my answer
I push these people away and then blame them for not helping.

I know what you are thinking,
but I don't want to say it.
This poem is brutally truthful enough,
I don't want any more pain.

U and I
always together
The Y before U
Obliterated forever
by the
O'
after I found U

i know,
that you'll never love me.
but,
dum spiro spero.





                                                    -­YYC

and just like that
his fingertips know
after two years
they are back home

I'm my own worst critic:
I think my 'work' is good.

Why do I stick to it?
Because I'm sure to think I'm good.
It's the best I can offer
All I have to proffer,

I know why I bother,
I quite enjoy my own poet's corner,
Which for me is a sanctuary;
In which to spend a stolen private moment
From a day tending to my children
And retaining gainful employment.