There's a newfound anger
that resides inside of me --
pent up from the terrors I'd pushed away,
it is a struggle between self-preservation
and mutualistic destruction,
a simplistic desire to never allow
another human to view me as you had.

An entire life you'd lived
before meeting the newborn me.
Special recollections endemic to you,
your portrait remains in my mind,
long-lasting forevermore,
too fragile to crack at the base,
memories withstanding the passage of time.

Hidden tears -- no sadness, just numb --
atmospheric tones of silence and refrain,
solemn notes adorn the walls of time
as they await the change in hopeful tides.
Rusted scissors in the hair of strangers,
swiftly dusting the fallen scraps
while the sun begins to dip beyond
the realms of the small town called home.

Unwillingly enduring the loss of a half
I never had the chance to meet;
those wounds never seem to scar,
yet onwards you marched through the veil
of cloaked dimensions diminishing hindsight,
a fallen flag now ripped and torn,
fabric scattered across an empty hall.

With age comes a realization
of the obscure similarities between us two:
fierce loyalty defines our name,
unabashed quips at those deserving;
our tonal blades slice into skin,
a verbalization of the anger repressed far away.
Our fingers can move, but we cannot feel
the freedom of those who dilated our gaiety.
It is easier for us to hide ourselves away
from those undeserving of the thoughts we possess,
the lies we believe, the trauma that haunts
deep into the silent night.

Mayme you were to the blood not ours;
Mother you were to the three you'd borne;
Meemaw you were to the many you loved
who sprung from the effort you selflessly poured
into raising the fruits of your labor,
the unknowing preparation of a life not yours,
a labyrinth of encouragement and love
for those who'd come after you were gone
and we who maintain your abiding legacy.

His name is ingrained into the fabric of our flag,
yes, the one you see there, waving in the December air,
with waves that glisten not from sun but from wind,
through the water turned frozen they fail to despair,
"My, oh, my, it's Washington Crossing the Delaware!"

Yet an intrinsic sense of nationalistic pride
exudes from the ink that tattoos this canvas,
the genesis of a nation they had taken for their own;
though, as truth becomes told, our pride seems to fold,
and the ink in the portrait begins to fade in color.

Still, on he trekked, though frigid and cold,
as hills bleached in snow began to unfold
potential Hessian retreats scattered across the beach,
a visualization of a battle bounding to unfold,
a strategist adept in war, in honor he was cloaked,

too determined to fail now.
But here we sit, in contemplation and wonder,
pondering the juxtaposition of privilege and patriotism --
how deceitful corruption now riddles those in charge,
empty promises as true as the navy blue

of the oils that stain this worn, cherished canvas.
Its memory lives on in the minds of many made here:
those of us who bleed the good ol' red, white, and blue,
and those of us who hide from the ones who tattoo
their whispered words into the portrait of our being.

Our quilted nation is laced with crimson,
a tapestry of history hidden from the young;
woven threads of variability outline the margins,
a picturesque vision of what could be; a voice speaks,
"Perhaps our future is just across the Delaware!"

why does it seem as if everyone has left me?
my hands quiver as i verbalize these thoughts
and the sweat from my palms dampens the page --
my vulnerability has become difficult to manage,
despite my mind's intent to remain good-willed
and my heart's discontent with the language misunderstood

friendship does not require ideological consistency,
and to believe otherwise is a detriment to the love
we are fortunate enough to experience in this life;
intellectual supremacy equates to the patronizing rhetoric
embedded within the elitism of the morally superior --
your grim clouds turn our progressivism dull

i will say what i need to retain a friend,
but the judgment within is a grudge untouched,
a ghastly bruise that never seems to mend --
you do not get to determine the language i speak,
the words i weep, or the healing i seek
when a bond so potent is forgotten so easily

to question my morality is to question my identity,
and those who know are the ones to see me grow
as i flourish from the bounds of these restrictions
and inch my way upright, stronger than before,
disallowing my words to be misconstrued,
a prohibition of the trauma i continue to elude

a Leo is loyal like the lioness of a pride,
gnawing at the flesh of the ones who betray --
grudges maintained in the chill of the winter,
a midnight breeze toppled an unchanged core --
it is not a star, this dim light retreating above,
merely the fading memory of our platonic love.

so long i'd feared potential isolation
inner grace turned ragged and worn
silence numbed the pain of regression,
countless nights of social deprivation
i glued the soles of my feet to that floor
unmoving in my solace of grateful acceptance
my crumpled aspirations were scattered and torn
yet the reminder remaining was your skin on mine--
my bed was shared and my space was raucous,
the fear of isolation consumed my own soul
unwavering in its probability yet willing to misconstrue
a demanding reclamation of the strides i'd made
re-imagining my perception of who i'd become to be
prolonging the inevitable at my own selfish detriment
but enjoying the fact that at least i wasn't lonely.