There are different reasons why you write.
You write because...
...you're happy?
you're sad?
you're delighted?
you're mourning?
keeping a secret?
But whichever reason you have,
you still write what's inside.
What other people can't see,
can't decipher beneath the words you speak,
can't understand the emotions flowing
through the sentences you can't speak out loud.
You write, pouring the feelings you can't let out,
you write. using the words you once thought can't explain what you feel.
You write, thinking that someone out there can finally discern what you're hiding inside.

it wasn't until the sun rose
that I realized
just how much
I was in love with the moon

A sweet story being told
Melting, it fills the mold
Every word is a piece of us
Every new world on the canvas

Couldn't you see
Every part of you and me
Has shaped the flowers
Until they became ours

the quiet thinly films over these sheets;
i press my cheek on the pillow — soundless, it hears me.
i rest my dusk-dimmed mourning on quiescent tiles,
and the crickets cannot stand the
silence — it recognizes now the thoughts,
much better than poems can.

i have taken this wordless fall,
hands tied behind my back,
feet tied, tongue-tied
down these sweet, senseless,
daffodil deliriums

i have taken this wordless fall
away, unseen, i land in grace —
this is the last noise i will ever make.

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

i spent my life trying to please
someone with a twisted disease
i broke myself down
and tucked my feelings away
to become the person
they wanted me to be
i let myself be watched
through the glass of a two sided mirror
of a sociopath
i wallowed my spirit away
and begged for acceptance
but there’s nothing in the world
that i could do
to let the narcissist know
that i am human too

our lips will never meet
nor our fingers intertwine
and so bless my dreams
for indulging what's not mine

She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.

up
as a paper doll
in blouse and skirt
and knitted shawl
and it’d hurt
between the lolls
when he didn’t call

He cut me
down
as an old oak tree
with tainted words
dropped to my knees
cut me in thirds
in a fell swoop breeze

He cut me
in
the spring
as tulips bloom
cut all my heartstrings
not to resume
this threadbare fling

He cut me
out
of his life
with a pen
not a knife
and then
took a wife