There is something romantic
about
           light
                     snowfall
                                      on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
                    from
                            falling
                      flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
                  yellow     dresses
                         powered
                              in
                        sparking
                       diamonds,
           swaying
      slowly to
            Father's
      lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
                          pours
                                    pink
                                            light
onto the dreary eyed school children

Yes, there is something romantic
about a
             light
                     snowfall
                                   on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
                the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
             melt
                             away.
Seeing the sun
                 beating
                    heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
                                                        ­                 is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.

too many strangers have called this body of mine home
what they don't realize is that under the pretty painted
walls and the beautiful chandeliers, the entire foundation
is crumbling to pieces and this home was not built out of
love and to preserve life, it is full of lies and confusion and
hurt. they see the dried up paint that ran down the sides of
the shutters when it rained and they think that just a new
coat of white will cover it up, they don't know that the runs
are the cuts to form over old scars, they confuse paint with
blood. i beg of you, please get an  inspector to look at me
before you buy into this tragedy, not that you would last
long, the ghosts that wander these halls will scare you out
before you can unpack the first box.

"you can not make homes out of human beings.
someone should have already told you that by now."

i can't be your home when i don't even feel at home
in my own skin.

love is like the night sky
stars upon stars
all out of order and no
sense of direction

it takes a skilled eye
and a reckless heart
to try to tame these things
to take form of something

but sometimes stars fall
but if love is a night sky
you are my north star
and i am the astronomer

1) For every great skyscraper, there are petty fingers that built them.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
They were strong enough to raise a hammer, but not enough to raise a family.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
She is cold, and he is drinking, and this is our backbone.
She is alone and he is driving home too fast because sometimes you don't have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
She is afraid and he is warm, this is the beginning spark of a forrest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in. Everyone with a burden holds their confessions in their left palm and their beggings in their right and no one ends up having enough arms to hold each other.
2) One day the whole world will be in your hands too, and you'll see that sometimes darkness can blind you worse than the red glare the sun paints your vision when you stare at it with your eyes closed.
You will be brave, you will stand up straight, you will stop being royal when people stop painting Jesus with a purple robe.
Even the concrete asks the sun to make it a garden so try cracking your knuckles a little louder and maybe you will wake up as a mountain.
3) Autumn. When you wrote secrets on notebook paper and taped them underneath benches in the city park, you gave too many pieces of yourself to things that weren't made for holding that much weight.
But you said it kept you honest and there were never any reasons for me to ask you to stop giving away the parts of you I wanted to myself. It kept me humble.
4) I am alone
5) You are October in a green dress with a black mask around your eyes and you have stolen the breathe of that day. And I hope when you are 80 years old you feel a breeze sliding on the back of your neck reminding yourself of all the times it should have snapped in half during the moments of what should have been your hanging, how it takes you back to living life like you're always in the desert and stealing innocent people's money and smoking cigarettes beside rattlesnakes.
I hope you find a beach in the Caribbean that asks to be died on, I hope you learn to forgive people harder than you can cry on their shoulder. I hope you watch a sunrise that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. I feel like for that to happen you need your feet in the ocean or underneath a rocking chair, but I would settle for your bedroom.
6) But with you it was never settling.