Write with emotion and don't let anyone silence your heart.
Write about the way her smile
makes your insides feel warm
and how your arms feel empty
without her curled up in them.
Describe how the sound of his voice
makes your ears feel like
a fuzzy blanket was stuffed inside them
with a cat purring, sleeping soundly upon it.
Explain to your readers why you hate yourself
despite the desperate need for others to love you.
Write down the questions
that you don't actually want the answers to
although the questions look pretty on paper.
Let questions lead to more questions
and your feelings lead to more feelings.
Tell a story about how lost you've been
or tell the world about your journey
to where you are now.
Write away your past, let it decide your future,
break boundaries and don't give up.
Teach yourself to believe that what you have to say
is just as important as what anyone else does.

Morning, Nine-five,
To the tiny flowers in your garden,
And celestial ongoing bloom.
To the cadence of the sudden
Bird awakened in the noon.

Morning, Nine-five,
To a drop of light that slithers down
Down the smooth of shins and to your ankles.
Morning to the heedless way it gowns
Tips of feet unhid,
Naked toes uncovered by your blanket.

Morning, Nine-five.

Desperate times call
for desperate measures
At least that's how the saying goes
Or something like
You never know what you can do
until you have nothing left
There's a few more like that
Something about **strength
being the only option
Or being your own best friend
loving yourself first
Understanding and forgiving
younger less wise years
Oh yes and understanding
those desperate tears
And realizing
You're not as desperate as (they)you
thought
Nope, your far stronger than desperate
You've weathered so many storms
You look back and know
No matter what you go through
You can endure it
Rise up my dear
you are so strong
Yes
You're quite the opposite of desperate

Sartorial elegance

He always wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck
The type actors wear when in blazer having a drink on the terrace
Of a posh hotel, he bought his scarf at a second-hand store
In Cheshire, nevertheless, it was made to fit him
Oddly enough the rest of his apparel was purchased in a Chine's
This gave him an air of seedy elegance that normally comes with
Those who suffer no self- awareness

He was poor and lived on bread and marge, when not invited
To high-born party by people who thought he was an aristocrat
Sometimes I came too because as he said he was writing a novel,
And that made me interested in people with literary ambitions,
There are so few of them hidden in lofts and not spoken of-
His dead was sudden a rope and a beam,
he was missed by the locals
I have not had a proper dinner for a long time,
But I wear his yellows silk scarf for a book unwritten.

You are the drug of my choice
the strength in my voice
a thief in the night
you stole my heart on sight
robbed me of sight so I can only love you with my soul
I gave you my all and more  
I sacrificed my imagination and filled it with your sensation
Addicted to you I am
like a an addict is to their needle of joy
I get a great high when I am around you
a depressive low when I am not with you
I am addicted to your flaws
in love with your insecurities
you bring out the best in me
every kiss is as powerful as every breath I take
I need your touch like the veins that connect to my heart
without that I am like an empty vessel with no purpose
You are simply my addiction and I will never seek treatment
In you I find therapy, you have taken the best of me

loneliness consumed you
while you were busy finding distractions
your eyes sunk deeper, your nights darker
you found a marker and wrote it out in black ink, you left half a cup of tea by the sink,
one final reminder that you could never clean up right, your scars were not quite healing
men came and went like hopscotch manic feelings, daily warfare, gentle as a tide though
you would let them in just to let them go
crafted a plan to **** yourself
because you didn't know anything else
but the bottom of a bottle you swore you didn't drink you spent 11 months sleeping on the brink of death
loneliness consumed you
you took the bad parts, shaped them into something you could swallow and fell in love with the high from your insides eating you alive now you're full of sculptures you gave up on years ago and maps of places, far away, where you'll never get to go
because you're bed ridden and tired, you're only 20 and you did it, you have carved yourself entirely empty

young trees
gaze skyward,
their branches thick
with a visual feast
of floral shish kabob
prepared in sunshine
with a rain marinade,
a treat
of the season.