winter has left and it took him with it,
along with my sanity and understanding.
and you would think spring would bloom flowers,
but i only see myself wilting and shaking.
winter may be gone, but the winds inside of me are still screaming;
more often than not i'm left clutching my heart in the middle of the night
crying because the rain of spring never really did make it's appearance,
and I'm lost.
There's something about the smell after the rain;
you know, the kind where all feels as if it's been washed away
and made new again? That's what I needed.
Droplets formed on the windows of the car,
as did they on my cheeks while his arms wrapped around me;
his head resting on mine like clouds during rain or shine.
Tonight, I was a thunderstorm.
He was always my rain;
sometimes he was a drought, sometimes he was a weekly storm;
but he was always my rain.
My sorrows were puddling into my hands,
my mind the heavy fog of a late March night,
and my heart a huge pothole in the middle of the road.
It's 12:45 and my clothes smell like him;
it's the smell after the rain;
didn't think I could drown in so many ways.
I'm stuck in the rain,
but i wish it was his cloud.
Don't believe your ears
The hand-hidden mouths
Rolling eyes are untrustworthy,
And the finger flips
That dismiss are referring to the weather.
The fear of rumors
About your clothes,
Or the pimple on your neck
Occupy too much space.
Angst is over-rated.
Take the high road
On feelings of belittlement.
Believe me -
Fewer people speak less of you
Than you imagine.
You're not the centre
Of our universe,
And if you were,
Everyone would whisper
Kneeling at your feet.
Even if the world tried to force me to use only black and grey crayons
I would still manage to create a colorful picture
For I am a poet and my imagination cannot be tamed
and my vision is never bleak
my letters may be black but the color in my words
will never be weak
Don't let the world change you. You are amazing. Keep writing even if no one else understands. For you too are a poet whose imagination can't be tamed
she, a willow wisp gone sour in the sunlight.
she, they said, a wide-eyed one time choking laugh
she, a too-bright moon with craters only calloused hands could read
she, they said
she bit her tongue with their teeth wrapped around her like spikes
here I am to tell you that I am not she, I am not your word or prayer or curse. I will no longer let you confine to the the lower-case, huddled down, back room existence of she.
I am I, Me, Woman.
— The End —