Dear seven year old,
Yes, there is a monster
But it’s not under your bed

The monster is in your head
But maybe it’s not even a monster
Maybe it’s just buried pain
Because they told you not to cry

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you should keep crying
Otherwise the tears will build up and flood your insides

The tears do not care for being stuck
They need to be released
Into the stars

Dear seven year old,
Yes, your plea for better times are being heard by the stars
They always will
Keep wishing on them

Wish on 11:11 too
Because to wish is to know what you want
And knowing what you want
Telling it
Makes it so much more likely to happen

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you still feel like the kid sitting under the slide and just observing life
And you’ve come to appreciate it

Observing, looking, watching
Make all the difference
Almost as much as writing

Dear seven year old,
Write.

There Was A Kind Poet Called Donna,
With pieces as vintage as the Madonna;
She had a thing for nature's Echo
Decoded in her magnificent Haiku
That unforgettable Poet called Donna.

I would **** for you
even if it meant killing me
I'd burn in flames if
you promised to treasure my ashes
I'd walk into a coffin if
it meant you'd kiss my grave
I would return to the soils
to be part of the ground on which
your tender feet gracefully glide
I'd take bullet for you
if you promised to always
keep me alive on your mind
*Because I am as good as dead without you.