What if the best poem ever written has never been read
The best soliloquy in history never once said
What if the best song ever played had never been danced to
Simply because we weren't given the chance to
Save every draft and treasure your trash
One day they may be discerned from the ash
You could be the next Emily, I the next Poe
And like most famished artists
we'll never know

Summer at your home;
thy embrace, warm.

Mondays of June,
those coffees with you
felt like love so true


-
....must we?

.
.
what I feel is,
confusing, fragile,
and rapidly changing

I am no Shakespeare;
not good in words but,
just a person who chained themselves
and lost the key

I write to feel, to procrastinate,
and maybe to blow off steam;
Hoping that each work bleeds
the feelings I want you to feel

being a crybaby is hard,
when you can't cry;
being emotional is frustrating,
when everything is too much

you bleed inside,
when you want to
act on those feelings,
[Not everything; can be expressed freely.]
That feeling is clawing
from the very depths of your being

They want to be free, do they not?
Despite that, they'll call you crazy
for feeling such things

Better to be rational
yet, they'll call you heartless
maybe something balanced would do

overwhelming feelings is a crime,
I guess dad told me why.

Society and its reality is relentless
a few several mistakes and
everything is in flames,
before you know it

everything has its perfect ratio,
a little bit of this, a little bit of that;

I should've maintained the status quo,
instead of putting concentrated things,
and giving a lot more.

-Br.

As a kid I believed the moon was made of cheese.
With age I learned it's just a frigid rock.
As a child I remember gazing at stars, whispering please.
As though the universe could really hear me talk.
Rainbows were pure magic.
Each one held a *** of gold.
Growing up is inherently tragic.
Splendor becomes same old same old.

nothing beats random
tree to halt life momentum
brown leaves on chill ground