No matter how hard I try
I cannot put what I really feel
down on paper.

You’d think that
something no one will ever read
(probably even me)
would allow free reign
to say what is really going on
inside my mind …

These thoughts and feelings,
my truths,
are there,
sometimes quiet, passive, dull.
Other times,
a maelstrom;
of anxiety,
of anger,
of regret,
of shame,
of loss.

And yet,
as I sit with my pen poised to write down my truths,
I am held back from writing what I need to say
and my words on the page
are empty,
meaningless,
passive,
dull.

And every day I vow to myself,
‘This will be the day I write down my truths.’

But not today -
maybe it will happen tomorrow,
or the next day,
or the next …

Mother can continue to see me
as a daughter, but my brother
and my husband must want
to know me as I am

I need that
even if it's not true
because my fruitless striving
keeps me alive nonetheless

Walking and writing
in notebooks and letters
explanations of who I am

Book after book to refute
and to replace what they like
to think about me, to break
it down and nuance it

Word by word weighed
and considered and rejected
now for sale to strangers -
my kind, if they dare to be so

Isn't it a spoiled life:

picking flowers on the edge --


of the precipice?

Why write down my life

accurately when I am --


mostly just writing?

A poets a lost musician
the talents a gift
the ability to compose poems
arrange words in a fitting way
to evoke strong reactions

However their doomed to a life
searching for their band
a group of people
to accompany them in life
the void of which
will grant the depth of sadness
deep into their writing

The music they've lost
forced to live without
haunts their poem
dancing between the lines
of emotional burden.

Moon & Rain

A boy gazes at the moon.
Suddenly, he imagines her 
the way she’d step onto the terrace,
Letting her hair fall through her fingers

As the memory drifts,
he recalls how he once saw her as the moon.
Likewise,
she saw him as the rain.

Though he was life 
soft, cleansing, gentle 
she called him bad weather,
and brought an umbrella.

He/rain could fall on everything:
rooftops, rivers, roses in bloom 
but never on her.
(Even though she stood on the rooftop to begin with.)

Rain was never meant
to touch the moon.
*She was never his to begin with

It was not man’s dream
to walk the Earth, or gander at the spectacles in the sky—looking at shooting stars different in color and size that appeared white to our naked eyes.

The dream of an astronaut is that of a child.
Because children don't let go of their ambitions.

Always seeing all the colors of the moon lit stars, which is regular to them.

A telescope and a room filled with geniuses is the comparison here.
It was never ironic for the world's prodigies to consider taking a path in space exploration.

Willing to make a name for themselves, they would want to be as big as the sun.
With little to no care of what risk it might pose.

——————————
The Day Of Launch:

“Apollo 11 was the first successful crewed mission to land humans on the Moon. Launched on July 16, 1969, the mission culminated in Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin becoming the first humans to walk on the lunar surface on July 20, 1969, fulfilling President Kennedy's 1961 goal.“

You looked at the magazines stapled together.

Today you walk grown ready to engage with bodies outside of your world.

The ship is titled upward and the rocket propelled directly up, the countdown is only brief—because of time.

Today or Tomorrow you have left Earth behind.

…

Distortion in Space, a place where everything is lost.

A time when a grown man wishes it was a dream—because of the foolishness of this world’s product…children.

Why a poem ?
This,
Yes this is *******

I force my face to curve
Yes , this is totally *******.

A don't give a **** face ?
Yes,That's why I can't pose,
Astheticism
Is not my **** blood,
Yeah i can fake a smile though

I had never a steering in my hand,
Now I have it
I can direct it to literally anywhere

And yes , I don't know why I kept moving

I have seen thousands of sceneries through this
Window,
Now I really decided to stop on this

Now when I stepped on the surface,
I lost the **** steering

Now someone else has it,
Another steering same purpose

And hey that's totally ******* too,

I have my legs so I can walk
Steps more,
But i will not and can't follow the car though,

The car was **** nice,
Ac inbuilt, soundproof glass
Feeling like on castle,
Looking down on one's who's
On **** bycycle
And one's who on his feet

They are **** ******* ******* too,
But all there is wanted to make a stop

Each stop is just is exaggerated
Now or then doesn't matters

Everyone will lost their **** steering.

This ,
This is
Not poem on sheet
Just pure *******.

And yeah now I am the scenery
Either I wait for the
The person who drives
Or just walk few more steps

Either way it depends on kind of glass
The person wears
Red or green
Cause the traffic light is absolute white
Completely neutral

The light has a button too,
to change accordingly

But as the scenery is
The light is absolute ******* too.

I’ve got a new pad, 50 pages
That’s a lot of room for my rages
Enough space to spill my soul
Getting to the cardboard, that’s my goal
It might take me a while
I’ll have to laugh, cry and smile
When I finally get to the end
The cardboard will be my friend