i know how hard it is for you to get to the deep stuff. i know how long it takes you to admit how you felt like burning when your first dog died and how admitting that makes you feel like embers relit because she isnt the first youve said these things to. how long does it take for you to uncover your emotions? i know you dont feel like you can trust everyone to tell these things to. you think, where is their shovel? how do you dig up these things you havent let out of the coffin in so long? how deep do you go before you are buried too? its okay, you will admit these things over and over and your body will always feel warm when you do, a house that survives a fire always seems a bit smokey. i know you dont like to get to the deep stuff, i know murky water makes you nervous. i know you'd much rather float along the surface of this something new until you hit land again but we both know the ocean runs deep and you are fascinated by it. let yourself get wrapped in her, in how she smells so sweet and how youve never been kissed like that before. its okay to want something new its okay to let your feelings go its okay, perfectly okay to move on, to dig up the coffin of what you buried just dont let yourself fall in the grave. they are not all like him and it is okay to admit to yourself that you like this something new. its okay to get to the deep stuff.

Shine On You Crazy Diamond
reflect the lost purity in us all
Shine your bent light upon our damaged souls
Shine until we overload

i saw a rainbow in a diamond once
reflecting the colors underneath the sun
it was a truly haunting and beautiful sight

it spoke to me, it said, always keep shining, in brightest day
and in the blackest nights,
let no evil, hatred, love or hope ever escape your sight.

So shine on you crazy diamonds. shine on

I don't seem to belong.
To the beating hearts, the
worn out, dirt-stained,
wry,
perpetually filthy
bluejeans.
I just am.
And how can that be enough?
I am a sheep in a flock
without such a heart.
For if wool covered potential,
any of my skin would be detrimental.
How can such a beast feel
stuck between an
immovable slab of concrete
and what is actually real.

Listen to life unapologetically.
For if there is no response,
remorse may go unmuted,
but unheard.
The only problem
worth deeming absurd
is that I was given this
flesh-filled, ruddy red *****
with a broken bridge
leading a trite path
to spoken word.

I don’t mind being criticized
If I’m wrong, tell me so
Let me know, so
I can go about doing right
And I just might find the solution
The retribution
The redistribution of answers
Being held from us
Preventing us from knowing
What knowledge is growing somewhere else in life

That’s what they say
But that’s what they all say
Convey threats to war
Scare us because they know we’re not sure
Send warnings then bombings exploding
everything, incessant destruction
so maybe it doesn't matter
if I'm right or wrong, I'm being criticized
as long as I can adapt to thinking
and can think about adapting
I just want to do what's right
so I write to figure it out
But I doubt what I see,
do my hand deceive me when
my words show that everything is wrong?

Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile

Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes

Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends

but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore

when you're not using it
to haunt the young.

Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore

with a full-bloom *****
and brought me to be--

The white skin and purple hues
of my mother

cannot hide that I am
of the monster.

Dare I, half-*****, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,

become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,

so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,

or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?

My mental health
Is far from sane
Books on the shelf
For days of rain
But I lose track of days
Caught up in the haze
Of the days that I miss
Far from my old bliss
Filling my days with pain
And so I sit in the rain
Waiting for puddles to grow
Into mirrors with my reflection
But even as I stare I'll never know
The reason for my mind's infection
Wishing puddles were lakes
So I could jump in and drown
Escape all the heartaches
See no sights and hear no sound
But the music in my head
Softly, sweetly pronouncing me dead

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.