This digital world kills me.
Slowly.
Feelings of heartbreak, loneliness,
Laughter, happiness, and excitement
Swallow you whole.

You can’t trust them.
It feels real, at first.
But this isn’t reality.

You must know that.
She did know.
But she dove right in, anyways.

The problem with being different...
Is that you look elsewhere for friendship.
And love.

It’s not all bad.
But mostly, it is.

She was curious, at first.
Simple conversations.
So genuine.

So, when it happened,
She felt nothing.

Deep in her heart,
Perhaps, she felt something.
Worry?
Care?

She never dared to show it.
Because she believed it
To be a form of weakness

That will consume you
And bury you
Alive.

The sky is a bowl of withered stars.
With emotion veiled
in the corner
of those truly murky blankets.
I spoke with the ghost of a fulminated tree
he told me his story
that is mine.

So his indirect revenge.


I will make a prayer to the rainbow after the flood,
after us,
after you and me.

There is no solution outside of love.

Impromptu
Concocted in my mind
Excitement or disappointment
Doe eyed and coy
**** and enticement
Heart a beating
And abeating
And abeating
A calmness
Sly smiles not a facade
Lackadaisical in emotion
Tethered doll am I
Seduction unnecessary
Unknown to our pairing
Anxiety unknown
What does it hold
All or nothing
The curiosity
Endless chatter
tastes so good
Stay

Entangled in the light
Of a beautiful blue
an abstract lace
Framed beyond
A metallic case
Many look inside
But only one sees out
Taking their view in
But failing to find
Where the beauty begins
The only thing that is for sure
The things that are so pure
Is that those eyes
Belong to her

- your eyes

"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."

Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.

"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds

of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.

She’s trying when she’s stressed
She’s trying when she’s tired
She’s trying even it’s not her fault
She has all this questions that she can never get an answer
Until she starts loving herself a little more
And remind herself that there’s nothing wrong with her