Just stop
Stop guarding me
Stop speaking for me
Stop trying to protect me
I know you love me,
But my weakness is your fault
So, please
I'm begging
Leave me alone
With my hurts
And let me fail
So that maybe
On my own
I can heal right
For once.

The symptoms, I can see
What’s hard’s to find the malady
There are problems arising
And the thought so paralyzing
I fit in perfectly
In the drawer of expired batteries
Can’t find a use, but I’m still working
Though I don’t mask well the hurting

There’s no mistaking me
A 6’2” catastrophe
Not the favorite, but I’m up there
Just don’t read my list of errs
I no longer apologize for myself
Though I’m not opposed to some help
These wings are malting, I don’t fly
But I aspire for the sky

Can you see me falling
Though on air seems like I’m walking
The open wounds masquerade as scars
I’m walking strongly, but not that far
Partial truth are still lies
Yet they’re sung lullabies
I’m trying to find truth in me
And am sometimes left out to bleed

The only apparent cure for this
Is to live my life and do my best
But life looks soft, but rubs on rough
And sometimes best is not enough
A prophet for thing in hindsight
A tympanum of unjust and unright
Crawling from the weight of memories
To hope and find the malady

Mistakes have names we hope to never speak:
Anger, lust, jealousy, selfishness, rage.
Mistakes are words we bestow on the weak,
Or the young, as we get better with age.

Mistakes are pseudonyms for impatience:
Insecurity, coldness, raised voices.
Mistakes describe us when we don’t make sense,
Or too immature, to grasp our choices.

Mistakes are identities we mistrust:
Ego, narcissism, self-loathing, shame.
Mistakes we avoid and avoid them we must,
Or we thought, we must forgive all the same.

Mistakes may come from dissatisfaction,
Or frequently just, overreaction.

I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true

When I was six, I recall seeing a young, feeble bird that had fallen out of a tree.
I do not remember the color, the clothing I wore, or why I did it.
I made a beeline for your place; you were kind.
Maybe this is why we are wary of consequences.

I know the weather that day was bright.
Like my personality and aura.

How do you feel knowing I am no longer the person I was?
Not because I have matured, but because I am too afraid to meet my younger self.

In your memories, what kind of child was I?
Do you remember? Do you choose to not?
Or maybe, you really have forgotten.

I sometimes wonder if things are different now, but I still can't face her.

Maybe I am not strong enough yet.

I want her to know I am moving on without her being a burden.
It's cruel, but there is not enough love in my heart.

I'm sorry.

There is blue in the way we settle.
The weight of the vulnerability that peaks near dawn.
It doesn’t make itself known
But we still wonder.
Is that the same shade of blue
When we float amidst our dreams
When we talk to our lovers
When we experience sadness.

There is a warmth we do not expect to feel that reveals itself.