Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

hate
love
****
save
suffer
heal
empathy
resent
torn apart,
the reality
of everything I had in my heart.

staying awake
to talk to him
is a distraction
from pain,
an escape route
I need.
I stay awake
talking to him
because his voice
settles the static
that’s been keeping me restless
since I opened my eyes
this morning.
staying awake
to talk to him
feels sweet
and pure,
yet I talk quietly,
because I’m 23
and still afraid
of what my family thinks.
talking to him
is cliché, maybe.
but I felt how nervous I was
first lying beside him,
and how it started to diffuse
when he leaned into me.
staying awake
to talk to him...
please
keep staying awake
to talk to me.
people come and go.
I’ve told them to leave.
he comes with flaws,
like I do,
and I don’t care
to judge him
like others might.
because he stays up
to talk to me,
helps quiet my static,
let's me fall apart safely,
and doesn’t complain.
when I’m alone,
he stays up
to talk to me.
and when he falls asleep,
I’m not worried.
because when he wakes up,
he reminds me
he's still there.

I silence myself.
I don’t want conflict.
tiny razor-blade cuts
every time I open my eyes
or my mouth.

walking on glass
for love.
I’m doing it
to myself.

careful
not to overconsume,
because you’re watching
my moves,
monitoring for a mistake
that ends in conflict.

It’s up to me
to isolate in my room,
to decide if I eat,
to change my perspective,
to see your face,
to open my door,
to speak the wrong words
and still show up
for family so hurt
they can't care.

It’s up to me,
to change something,
myself,
if that's what causes it.
anything
but silence myself
and hurt you more.

I want to help save you,
but I save myself
from the pain
of lying in bed at night,
wondering
how a good day
went so bad
everyday.

I can stand up for you,
and I don’t
when I’m “scared.”

it all falls on you,
and that makes me feel
unredeemable.

I’m letting you down.
you tell me,
“get a voice.”
you say I hold more power,
that I need to speak up for you.
that I get treated better.

but I still feel
small.
invisible,
even when I’m the one
who “has it better.”

how do I speak up for you
when you taught me
to fear conflict too?

misunderstood themes
haunting my mind
like I’m serving a life sentence.

you say you could move away.
you’ve said it
more than once.

sometimes I think
maybe I should,
like you said.
and never talk
to anyone again.

I’m scared to leave with you,
because it could repeat.
but if that happens,
it’s up to me.

I’m sick to leave without you.
selfishness erodes this family,
disgracing what it used to be.

after all you did for me,
I can’t leave
without you.

you say you keep it real.
I agree.
thank you.
now I’m going numb
like you.

you say
I’m watching you self-destruct,
push and clear off the tables,
slam dishes,
throw food.

fifteen years have gone by,
and I’m afraid.
it got worse.
I'm not helping.

and if I’m there,
I’m worried
I won’t support you right.
that I’ll add stress
you don’t deserve.

stress you’ve carried
for years.
stress I am still
ignorant to.

you say,
"you think you feel stressed?
tell me about it."

I'll be the icing on your cake
on a bad day,
and you'll say,
"I'll make you feel
how you made me felt."

I’m codependent on you.
you’re like my parent.

and I replay
every time I disrespected you.
every word
I shouldn’t have said.
you still remind me,
because you are reminded.

you say nobody helps you.
I believe it.

I know
you want to die too.
so how
can I say
you hurt me

when I,
and everyone else,
have hurt you worse?

you say I’m the cause.
then, other times,
I’m not.

that I don’t do enough.
that I have power,
but don’t use it
right.

so please,
live my life for me.
or let me
take my own.

I need
a reason
to stay trying,
and to stop blaming you.

something more
and less pathetic
than living
for everyone else.

can't decide.
can’t think.
can’t move.

product of conditioning,
and the illusions of a victim.
it’s mind over matter.
and I’m running,
just to escape
the accountability
of my racing heart.

there’s weight on my chest,
trickling down my esophagus,
into my lungs,
my airways,
my bloodstream.
sinking,
thumping,
leveling out
in my stomach.

I feel a wall form,
then it splits,
dividing,
pulling,
and the walls
endlessly
rip away from each other
with resistance,
like magnets
reversed.

it’s chaos.

I always think,
“this will be the last time
I can handle my heart racing like this.”

then it happens again.

I write. A lot
I write about sadness and death
About joy and smiles
I write about feelings on top of feelings on top of feelings.
I write. A lot
I write in every form
I write stories and Ballads
I write Odes and songs
I write poems on poems on poems.
I write quite much don’t I?
I write when I’m not supposed to
I write when the house is asleep,
I write where I’m not supposed to
I write in my head while tears stream down my face
I write a lot. I guess.
Why though?
Who is it for?
When I write a lot, I mean.
I think it’s for my brain.
Because when I write, my tears stop, so I have enough energy to shed words
My brain pauses so I can search it for phrases and meanings
My hearts stop pumping so I can focus. Even if it’s just for a moment.
I write as if the words are my speech and the commas my voice.
I write as if I am talking
Talking to the words on the page or on the screen
Telling them things I don’t dare to say to anyone else
I write. Too much
I write  about everything in every way
I write when I’m not supposed to
I write quite much. Too much. Just enough…..
…….Yes.
I write just the right amount.

our song is me writing-
"poetry about those stolen stares
songs about that beaming smile
and even a whole film script about it"
the ink of my pen bleeds in pink
but later turns to gray
i weave our memories as part of a big story
with a ****** in which you
devoured me with a kiss
but the falling action sets me adrift
to wander on the seas wide
with no cure to this disease
our song is a song in which-
"nothing happens but desertion comes in light
to pull out my nerves and haunt my midnight
i lose my sanity and cry till my eyes starts to bleed"

A person desires his life,
To be lived outside time.
How much more will he lie?
He asks questions, he asks for a knife.

A world of hope, a world of life,
Will they give, will he buy?
Dust till dawn is your time,
How to grow, how to die?

A word to write, a letter to die,
Thoughts are given, the curse is mine.
Fake emotions, the faces are dry,
How to choose, when to cry?

Choose your crime, your guilt now,
Why is my love often stuck in the market of beauty?
Do this, do that, keep yourself busy,
Fulfil the hungers of the greedy.

if the words were real
and leapt off the line?

because you're skilled, or
because you have nothing else?

if they only lied to save your feelings?

if all it took were imagination?

if light weighed more than a thousand bricks?

             Upon the pier, the wind and absence
             gazing out, darkening all into an empty
             canvas or pond, canvas or chasm, why not
             both or nothing but it's too cold to stand
    
             Even stars bend from pressing distance
             but eyes can capture what hands only touch

if he truly believed,
the waves would hunger yet