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I have a nephew who's full of life
Makes me happy in this **** life .
He is the rising sun
Breaking light on every one
Helping me smile
Helping me be free
Colors just burst for he
He can not talk
He is special needs
But in his silence
I no his needs
He also smart
He understands me
He make me laugh
He so full of glee
So happy
So insightful
So misunderstood
He walks in a room
A bomb of energy
Oh dear sweet boy
I do love thee
Thankyou for trusting me
Thankyou for showing me
How to be free
You are the fastest river I ever see run
The strongest boy
So full of joy
Heart so pure
Colours dance around you when you sleep
He is the kindest wee boy you will ever meet x
My nephew is 6 he is special needs I spend a lot of time with him x we have a close bond . He such a sweetie x but he is ill in hospital so this is a poem dedicate to him xxxx I want him to be ok x
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.
Inspired by the Vanity Fair article of André Aciman's reaction to his book *Call Me By Your Name* being made into a movie. Specifically the quote, "I couldn't write silence."
Dream of me
I am real...
I am where smiles are made
and tears fade away
Where hope springs forth
Away from the darkness
of the earth

I am the glow of the moon
and all the stars in the sky
those who seek the light
shall have me as their guide

I am the red bird or butterfly you see
Just keep your eyes open... to find me
I am where tomorrow is coming
and hope always holds on
My darling
I am never truly gone....❤
I have been dreaming of my mother lately and do not want to wake up because it feels so real and I miss her so. I wrote this from her perspective writing to me
Dainty hours
spent with her petal soft smile
lush exchanges
how her mouth makes words warm
delicate  moments
when our eyes held each other
little desolate
when hands separated
and time disconnected us
as it blindly does
without so much as an apology
Can you tell me
please
which way now is home
I used to know, my dear
The way was clear
There was no fear

Tying my walking shoes
I knew I needed to get clear of here
thought I'd find
all that was dear

The road though, it is narrow
The cliff it is shear
My balance is
woozy

Can you tell me my dear

which way is home
which way do I go from here,
I think I oughta know
But the hills they are wavering
The ocean is in turmoil
The mountains are slick
far too dangerous

The desert has no mercy

I know something and with this knowledge
I think I must be cursed
I think I have it
Peace & Home
goes and comes
and comes and goes.
Who is a real man?
A man with a hard rock body,
Can hold his liquor without puking,
Has many ****** encounters,
Lots of money,
Wins many fights,
Muscular with ten packs.
No!
A real man  seeks knowledge for himself and his family's betterness,
He is focused,
Stays away from glitz and glamour.
He is gentle but firm,
Does not holler to get his point,
Is not a punk.
He is a family man,
Makes time for his family,
Brings up his children to be upright human beings.
Keeps his promises,
He is trustworthy,
Does not break deals,
Pays his debts,
Is upfront and honest.
Respects all women,
Doesn't leer with lust at women,
Stays faithful to his wife,
Treats women with respect.
Keeps his house in order,
He does chores around the house,
Helps with dishes,laundry and ironing,
Cooks sometimes.
Pays his bills on time
Handles his own money,
Doesn't go looking for hangouts,
Or depend on his wife or parents.
Works his tail to earn a decent income,
Budgets his money and saves,
Gives to charity and good causes.
Does not whine or complain,
Solves his own problems,
In my opinion that's a real man.
I cried over take out mexican last night ashamed of my lack of friends
It never bothered me before
Probably because I never really took notice
But when you moved away it made me realize I had nobody
My family wouldn't even go out with me
Two friends
One I barely have the time to speak to anymore
And you, who moved hours away
I guess it's kinda funny that this of all things caused me to spiral down
Being alone is the worst kind of pain
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