To the girl who loves my brother,*

When you look at him, see his wide
eyes as not an invitation, but as an endless
cavern of innocence.
Look at my brother with respect,
as he survived his entire life growing up
with women.
Yes, he was taken in because his parents
no longer wanted the burden of a child
who was believed to be a mistake.
Look at my brother with pride,
because every night he heard me cry,
he whispered into the shadows,
“Are you okay?” To which my
reply was always, “I'm fine. Just sick.”
He listened to me blast my ears with
music to block out the world, and *******
it, he would pull one out just to say:
“Hey, you're going to lose your hearing.”
which was his way of saying,
“I'm worried about you.”
Don't you hurt my brother, as I've said
before, he was raised by she-wolves who
not only built a home, but arose from
nothing.
My brother was a burden I did not want
to bear growing up.
Now, I see his eyes are filled with
life, and his voice is deeper than an abyss.
My little brother who is not so little
anymore.
My little brother who I completely
destroyed when I told a whole bus filled
with kids: “He's adopted.”
I regretted it as his eyes clouded over, and
at such a young age, he knew this was a
bad thing.
Love my little brother for his quirky
comments, love him because I didn't
love him enough.
Love him on his weakest days,
love him when he's crying into
your pillows.
Love him because as I paved a path
for him to follow, he got himself
lost in the woods.
Lead him back to me, please.
Love my little brother as he was denied
this.
-DDF

Time: 1
Us: 0

Will it always be like this?

Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
     as
the clock's hands
push
         push
pull us together,
apart.

Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.

Time: 1
Us: 0

In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
                                              around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
                   you face me.

So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
                            around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.

I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
                      we don't want to look
away from each other.

Time: 1
Us: 0

The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
                           round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?

Don't look.
Don't bring it up.

Time: 1        
Us: 0

The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.

The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.

Time: 1
Us: 0

The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
                                           your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
                                       can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.

Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
                 saw in
my eyes
               that silver gleam.
My eyes
               saw in
your eyes
                 the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?

The scoreboard screams:

Time: 1
Us: 0

I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?

Time: 1
Us: 0

We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?

We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
                          in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
                          start to leave.

It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)

Time: 1
Us: 0

It will always be like this.

Time: one.
Us: love.

Meh speed is fun, no not the drug.
Wish that came earlier.
****** up my race on a ******* attack.
Finished off the back.
The ******* scrub, placed or some ****.
I didn’t listen.
We agreed before to be at each other necks.
We like it that way.
I should have made him feel like ****.
All he does is sit.
People ******* hate his guts.
He is fourteen.
Solely responsible for ******* up his future.
I try to help.


I might try to back him up, or burry him.
I’m not sure yet.
His dad is nice, his mom is full of ****.
I do extra to shut her up.
His dad cheered for me at the race.
No **** I’m trying.

I thought his sister had a crush on me.
She’s like thirteen.
I kinda, almost, at one stage liked her.
We are tied together.
They are a tight family and he is stuck to my wheel.
He *****.
Tremendous respect for that ***** though.
I know how it hurts.
A ******* monster attacking your soul.
Burnt legs, crispy spirits.
The monster tells me I’m going the right way.
Can’t stop.

I once remember talking with a friend of mine about her unbelievable  skill of music. Even though we were always friends, I could never let go how she was so much more talented than me... Jealousy overwhelmed me. That gave me drive to always strive to be better than her, but she always seemed to be on top. As we were talking, I asked...

"How are you so talented?"

She replied, "I practice for 2 hours everyday."

I was so astonished by how someone could be so dedicated, that I couldn't resist to ask why?

She responded with the biggest smile on her face saying, "I love it. It makes me happy, I don't know why, but I can't go a day without practicing. It would feel like someone took away air if they took away music from me."

I saw a genuine passion for music in her. She didn't just want to practice, she needed it.

After plenty late nights and endless hours, I asked myself, where has all my motivation gone? Where did my love go? I used to have a desire to play music, what happened?

What was once my love for music now became a jealous competition and rivalry to achieve perfection.

I shouldn't focus on what I can't do, but rather what I can do.
I shouldn't focus on what others can do, but what I can do.
I should focus on being the best I can be at what I love.

And that's the thing about passion, it doesn't come from jealous feelings. Passion isn't something you can force. Passion is finding something that gives you a burst of motivation to achieve greatness. And not for anyone else, but for yourself.

So no matter what you're doing in your life, whether it be music, art, math, or any aspect you can think of, make sure you are doing it for yourself and for your own happiness. Motivation doesn't come from those around you, it comes from your own genuine love and desire for something.