steady and faulty we win the race
I have known few men who won with grace
I see glimpses of myself in every failure
and reflections of regret in every triumph.
I so wish the human experience was less nuanced than it is
if things happened just so
and people remained as they are
waiting for you to flip the page.
what oyster knives lay flat against cold tiles of realization
and why does the world not mourn half artists who favored the race over grace.

we are abandoned
left with sticks made out of pens
and stones that look like paper
we are whole
and utterly broken
we mend our bones with stones
forget about paper

we learn what it means to be incomplete
what flame does to paper
that bones mend, and pens love the company of paper

we rush to collect our inked paper
these blessings stitched, our children will learn by means of our strife, not theirs

we wake up slightly less broken
even so, we write
and when ink runs dry
we write with tears
then with blood
we break our bones for pens
and tear our clothes for paper

the history we live
the labor of our youth
it will be written by us
not you

I have come to the conclusion that we were never meant to be
that is not a product of our circumstances
rather, our dispositions
and how you falter
and I do not
and when faced with adversity, our tactics differ
you the setting sun
trailing behind you washes of color
a soft whisper of a reminder
that you passed through
you liked it that way
how amusing is it then that I am enamoured with you and the setting sun equally
some days the sun is better to me
and those days I resent you
I am ill equipped
and you are well versed in all the ways lovers dance
I am an arrow to a target  
you question the need for arrows
my setting sun
I will love you till you set no more
till the arrow makes more sense to you
till you try to shoot yours, perhaps
I am all together too aware of the fact
that you are surrounded by targets
and I am not one
and all written words do is attempt to bring me closer to you
to understanding what we've created of ourselves
I shall try to stop hurling my arrow at the splendid sun once it stops kissing my skin

It is so achingly easy to believe that loving you was always meant for me, always meant to hold candles to wet paint,
hear the clock tick in my chest.
I anticipate your arrival before I've known your name,
tuck away all the affection I thought I had lost.
It is maddening
and utterly blissful
I love you
your words have floated in my chest
aimlessly
and when we met
I sung your name recklessly, unknowing of the grave mistake I've committed
you engulf me
body and soul
and I fear all that will be left in your wake is an oath, a plea, never part with me
unaware of my grievance, I roam
and unaware
that you were the beloved I've waited for
that the sky looked different that day, for you
everything crisp.
I was prepared to love you
from that day on
till the day I am mourned.

i was given very little
in the way of struggle i am well versed
i resist the restless urge to assist
knowing assistances means very little when offered by the battered
and does the thought truly count as any
when calculated by those who find utterance a task for the brave
I envy you
envy being all I was offered
when asked what is to be done to a world so cruel as to abandon the hungry
and let the dead and the not yet dead roam
aimlessly
I fear
it is my fate
to turn into those I envy least

it is of common knowledge
that farewells are part of the battle
and we are merely casualties
at the sidelines of the war
we glance at our mothers
waving their tear stained white handkerchiefs
and we try to seem whole
as we are rushed away
in trains crowded with judgment
the screech a relief to absent mind ears
so begins the journey
and ends the plight
the heart grows fonder
once the beloved is no longer in sight
and perhaps once one is lightyears away
we can begin to heal
wounds we've stitched with contempt and dismay
hurt weaved into the foundation of us
we are what we make of this
one can accept the bitterness
or shatter the glass separating them from themselves
and start anew
on green grass and clear blue skies
we promise ourselves and the world who fed us and clothed our backs
that we will make use of this time
this hurt will mean something
rebuild what once was
goodbye