.  .  .

You said to me “If you want something just reach out and grab it”

And it that moment I held your face. “I got it.” I replied.

Am I just not quite my self?
Should I reach out?
Ask for help?
Well, all the others have

ALREADY BEAT ME THERE

Am I just too reclusive?
Should I reach out?
Ask for help?
Sounds ******* amazing,
honestly, but

YOU CAN'T ASK SOMEONE TO CARE

now can you?

The saying goes, if you don't feel old,
you're not old.

Me, I don't feel anything explosively,
aging fast.

The last time I remember as rapturous,
I was dumb.

Pushed up against the locker.
Never been kissed, since then
I've kissed and kissed and lips
have never been as plump.

The last time I remember excitedly,
I was dumb.

I was fifteen,
was sixteen,
then dead.

I was young, dumb,
now numb and wasted.

Just wasted.

He was a blank book.

With my ink of sonnets,

I gave him a story,
syllables full of stars.

I made him
readable, interesting, intriguing.

But, the last thing that ever crossed my mind,

was that sitting there,
on that shelf, I also made him

reachable.


*Sandoval

Dear Heart,
Why are you still there?
In the black world?
Come.
Come towards the light.
Reach for me.
Let me show you wonders
beyond your imagination...

I am drowning
Gasping for air
Reaching for help
Held down by what I cannot stop
Surrounded by what I cannot bear 
Choked by what I cannot see
Cut off by what I cannot explain