From the depths of my soul
My most reputable
source of information Told me
to keep it real
but the reel's spinnin' Towards me
and the fact of the matter
is a matter of fact
the laughing stock
is just a toy warehouse in the back
and these feelings are just feelings
and it's clearly appearing
that merely believing
is healing the cracks
Sanity intact
Man it seems that that alone
Would satisfy my manic past
A lapse of judgement
Frequents me
So let's adjust the frequency
Muster up the decency
To face it head on peacefully
Turn another leaf for me
To at least get through this evening
So I can focus on just healing me

I stayed in bed today
Because I was scared
of how other people
would see me.

I fear how the
world sees me.

I want to be seen
For who I am
And who I want to be,
Not who I am told to be.

That is no life
Worth living.

Our parents are
There to guide us
Not dictate us
And neglect our needs.

So why do they act like
we're dangerous to ourselves?

We may not always know
Exactly who we are, but
They don't always know either.
What does age have to do with it?

Refuse to be
Someone you're not.

Stand up to false reality!
Stand up for your beliefs!
Be who you are and step into the
shoes you were meant to fill!

The poet looks
and delves.

She wonders if he ever stops,
him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train,
if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs;
the poet is dumbfounded at him
ceasing.

In construction sites of grammar,
where free ideas float in ruins,
poet wonders how,
how, how
he came to plan to live
up
to an exclamation mark.
And condensed so many dribbles and strikes
of strange and fruitful, even withered
paragraphs into one line and pointer -
a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk -
an exclamation mark.

The poet stares, once again
astounded by the little streaks of the universe
and longs to hold on to something.
Disarmed,
she can't quite put a finger on it,
his gaping honesty and his quiet one,
that contradiction
shouting in her face
while whispering in her eyes.

The poet laughs -
laughs of, in, out
of sleep.
Summer is here.
And she chooses to notice.
He laughs too,
but he's always been noticing
and the poet writes down how
she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world
and taste

it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering
just as him.
The poet saw all
colours rolling in one
strange song of limbs.
She did not like the music
but she made herself a blank white canvas

and listened
and laughed

clean, silly laughs
fluting out of the incongruity
of simple,
simple
moments.

Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth -
it is possible to smile down at
what a clown pain is.
He declares this boldly
without saying a word
or two.
The poet is dumbfounded at him
being.

She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture
but she was blind.
He said he was blinder and that
was true. The poet
did not smirk but giggle at the irony -
he lived in pop-bold spectacles,
she slept in black and white films.
But both were blind.

We cannot see and
we
are blurs.

The poet likes that life scrapes away at her
because she can see chinks of white sunshine
through all the sheared-off layers.
Clean, clean,

bright, bright -
he teaches her in a beam
without a hello.

The poet writes poetry
on breathing action prose.
And she laughs -

You are everything I don't want
but I'm curious.

We run from the downpour
to the safety of the car
a warm glow of paper cups
steam rising from their mouths
now silenced by water

I say,
“I hope he likes his hot chocolate
with a shot of rain"

You respond with a laugh;
Small and fleeting
and sincere.