"unsealed" poems
Deferred thought my mind speaks
but unable to reach
Since, lacking proper fuel
words are no more than tools
Idly on the shelf
All alone by themselves
Whether each has the skill
Makes no difference still
Needs a user to wield
The brain must be unsealed
Else it's nothing but noise
And will only annoy
To communicate one
Has to pay attention
And your message think through
It is important to
Listen right back
Without barbs or attacks
Open-mind speaking freely
Add diplomacy
Must employ use of tact
Support statements with fact
Do not rush; take your time
Critical? Then be kind
Not a must to agree
Can't force someone to see
Each of us has his thoughts
Throughout life we are taught
There are social patterns
Easily to discern
So, wherever you fall
Do not build up a wall
Keeping out you will win
As you lock yourself in
Rigid form without flex
New ideas will perplex
Ignorance and denial
Grow into a pile
On island alone
Statue made of stone
In your mind you’re entombed
Happy life is now ruined
Feeling always against
With a paranoid sense
A refusal to see
An unwavering tree
But a tree can still bow
Give and take it will show
Rigid thoughts become firm
Close your mind; will not learn
Placing all of the weight
Just for you; here to take
And must always support
Forcibly will contort
Having flex we adjust
This in life is a must
Something we can not do
Like to uncook a stew
Won't exist very long
People just not that strong
Or should they try to be
A journey incomplete
Happiness lies within
On these words please don’t spin
A sole island you're not
Harmony should be sought
Infinite universe
You can’t always be first
Finding balance in life
Like to see without sight
Each of us wants respect
But to give is to get
Listen up before talking
Use foot and start walking
Will find in due time
Not to bother or mind
People are free to think
From each other we drink
How we grow and evolve
Complex problems we’ll solve
Not a perfect system
But we gather wisdom
Always strive to improve
It’s the best we can do
To communicate we
Open our minds to see
And try to understand
Flawed and kindred humans
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Asleep alone
I got the light scare
Of a nightmare
With my plight there
Which wouldn't fight fair
Awake awaits
Chirping is all I hear
Dragging life into focus
Getting the lens clear
To see things are hopeless
My aches and pains
Are my body's refrain
To remind me of existence
Despite my mental resistance
I am lucid
I take my shoelace
And loop it
To run a new race
Timidly trembling
The violence in my dreams
Matches the silence and screams
That defile us and our team
Making the nightmares real
And the pain I can feel
So it's love I steal
A devil's deal
Hell unsealed
I can hear the vultures chirping
Or maybe they're just burping
Out the demons I ignored
My forgiveness they implored
To meet a silent scorn
Like a muted tribal horn
Banishing them to another realm
With my ostracism at the helm
Until the lonely are overwhelmed
And I see the error of my ways
Once I'm part of this chaotic haze
Practically paralyzed
I am lost
In this game
I've met the boss
He and I the same
He is a voice
Chirping in my ear
Saying I have no choice
I should give in to fear
And just drink beer
Until the end is here
Carelessly comatose
The birds that once sang beautifully
Now retreat dutifully
When they see my thoughtless anger
Turn me into a ruthless stranger
Creating danger
For those living righteously
They start fighting me
Trying to enlighten me
Which is only exciting me
Because I lack the sight to see
What the world could be
If we could harmonize
Like the birds
Not using argent lies
But soothing words
Yet there is no tax exemption
For my reluctant redemption
So my mind invented
No incentive
Soul slaughtered
The tear jerking
Birds chirping
Constantly remind me
Inside my sleep they find me
Thrusting me into a life unwinding
Through my window the sun is blinding
When I start to fear my brother
After seeing mirrors in others
Reflecting my attitude
Of ingratitude
I had a nasty nightmare
Of Camp Crystal Lake
Filled with misfit flakes
Paying for their mistakes
With pain and suffering
As deep as a submarine
Being torn apart
For every decision
Hiding their heart
To avoid incisions
And once all these losers are slain
The birds chirping start a new day
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
I am not a *****
Labelled by the past racist ****
I'm not black
That is a color and mostly
Associated with magic and evil
I am not a *****
***** meaning black in Spanish
Applying to the same
As the three lines above
I am not not African American
I have never seen nor been to Africa
Africans don't claim us
Nor do they reap like us
They had there time in slavery
But never like us so called Blacks
Along with the Indians and Mexicans
So i ve thoroughly researched
And my roots trace back
To being a descendant of kings and queens
A Hebrew
Ya see Hollywood knows the truth
It is a secret that's long needing
To be unsealed
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel so caved in,
With all my thoughts, all I can do is swim.
Through these energies that are flowing from within,
Just because I cant stop and ask what’s with him?
Why do I always have to make a choice,
My mind just wont let me be free,
I feel like I have to make a decision
but that’s not how Ive learned to be.
So let me tell you about this chick I know,
Shes not like all them girls that we always see,
The first time I met her I grabbed her by the arm,
I knew there was a story that was deep.
I looked in her eyes and all I can see,
her color contacts, that were trying to deceit.
But deep down inside there was a story that was real,
Her eyes and smile did a good job to disguise,
But that didn’t fool me,
I wanted to know the story that underlies.
The reason why she seemed so attractive to me.
Im not ususally a sucker for eyes, but the way she looked at me,
Made me feel like she understands how to be free.
I should’ve known the story she hides is something that might really hurt me,
Because any story that’s locked up inside should never have a spare key.
In the beginning I tried to make the situation feel sooooo real,
But soon I realized that she had an addiction that was unsealed.
Her wandering eye couldn’t stop her from speaking to many guys,
Im not saying shes some ***** in disguise,
But really she was a free spirit floating around that didn’t know her goodbyes,
Even though she realized that might soon lead to her own demise.
I shouldn’t say guys because in reality its just one that makes me compete,
That look in her eyes was that she once knew what it felt like to be complete.
That one other guy had left her so traumatized that shes never willing to forget,
It was her obsession just like a cigarette.
Everytime she felt angry or terrified there was one person who she knew would help offset,
That one guy who she never wanted to regret,
No matter the endless amount of time that he made her feel upset,
Dreaming in her mind that one day they can recreate that fierce duet.
See the problem was within me, I felt the need to help her realize
That life is always filled with opportunities
If we live in the past and never let go of what we once all had,
We ll stay blind and you would never get to see.
That there is some other guy that’s willing to improvise in order to help you lead,
I got shot down with all of these stories about how she cant commit,
The sad thing is she wont even realize how beautiful she is,
She lets one experience judge her whole life and all she thinks about is what if.
I even learned to like who she is regardless of the lovefilled flaws.
Just because I want to show her that her craziness can be fixed.
She thinks shes always lost her mind, and that her process is so one of a kind,
That no other guy can help her define, who she wants to be.
But I learned how to believe,
Before my insecurities and perfectionism took over my next decision,
But now what I learned is that life not about some kind of demonstration,
Its process that involves many years to learn,
I don’t know why but I really feel the need to have her in my life,
Even though it was causing me concern,
Now you know why I feel so caved in,
I fell for a girl who wont let me win.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement
to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination
some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime
*my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime*
may1 9:19am ‘19
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
(On her canvas, brushes will cross;
he, the art of loving the loss)
At the break of her ego's regard,
invite insight --in slight, reveal
a glimpse of past, the skin of real:
the scarred survivor turned cautious bard.
Let her wonder, let her ask,
then let her outline your mask.
Let her hands combat the task
of pains that guard passion's cask
as her reach exposes chest,
thieve her strength, become her nest.
Be the moon, she: the sun,
chase the path of day and night,
****** duel outright:
bite her bullets, strip the gun.
And when your cask has been unsealed
feign fear, hesitate --be revealed.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Since I cannot cure my schizophrenia
I decided to end my owned dilemma
I looked for a rope to hang my head
But split in two, that old rope left me undead
But that was not enough to stop my will
In our kitchen, a shining blade
But I pause for awhile for the reason
That I might pass out undead
So I then looked for a key
To open the cabinet
Unsealed the gun that was strictly kept
To put into my head that one tiny bullet
Just one shot and for sure I’ll be lucky dead
I pulled the trigger it didn’t clicked
Then I realized I've never done any
I’m stocked in my lonely room
Chatting with nymphs, those god’s so holy
Then I began to chill while facing demon and ghost so scary
My world was full with delusions
I can fight no more this emotion
Since they cannot cure my schizophrenia
How I wished to end my owned dilemma
But how can I?
They don’t want me to
I was incarcerated in this empty room
No rope to hang this head
No blade to slash my pulse
No gun to point in my head...
written: July 01, 2014
Mysterious Aries
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
Some people feel like places. And these people are vacations. These places are people. Freckled wall paper. Foyer tunes whispered. They are supermarket candles. Wavering flames by way of unsealed windows. They are blinds, these places. And you see through. And you hope through, these people. Pulling back curtains of brunette hair, applause deserved. Delicate, delicate. The slightest noise could alarm clock and send you back to work. Silent, silent. It's rest. Try hard to relax. She's a mole between ******* She's scar tissue on an ankle. And this place, this place smells of honey; tastes like almond milk. "In a perfect world what would you do tonight?" Sleep in this place. Wake inside this person. Simple. Clean. In a perfect world, morning sewed with lavender clouds, tall grass, and a watercolor sun unseen before. And this place likes eggs over easy. And this person warmly invites like white lenin.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
I will follow you
whereto you roam
I will follow you
all the way home
down the road
up the hill
along the river
by the mill
past the tin shed
that old shoe store
till I follow you
and go no more
to an open field
where a path unpaved
with stones unsealed
leads to your grave
May 1, 2022
May 1, 2022 at 6:56 AM UTC
The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.
Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)
We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.
The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****
You will die.”
Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.
Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
*They want to change you
Yet break you
They say they don't mean to
But they leave you
You're a damaged piece
They all could see
A sterile seed
Mended but unsealed
There's a long, long way
To the heart you don't give away
A path of dismay
Gravel of things left unsaid
You're a different story
With ravel, no glory
So venomous, so lonely
Ruining yourself impatiently
There's only one way to you
A twisted and crooked route
Understood by just a few
For you bear no truth
You're an illusion, like art
The end of a beautiful start
There yet is
A windy highway to your broken heart*
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 7:41 AM UTC
contradiction, sorrow, and vulnerability,
a trine labeled as all mine,
yet, this triumvirate, well know & shared,
but more and moreover,
set aside if/when well dared
this comatose trilogy that so oft astrides,
when the beacon moon stands us up
with white lightening,
after hope has washed away,
out to the sea deep of
crusty sleep,
newer versions of older stories uncovered,
re-revealed,
warmth, golden light and
hope above hope,
in the weakened human heart are,
must be,
unsealed...
a lovely one, a rising one, a revelatory,
a poem releasing secrets,
we can all, with time, all of us,
be healed...
1:40 am
nyc
one new day,
today
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
~~~
“La natura è piena d infinite ragioni che nò furò mai in isperiètia”
Leonardo da Vinci
~~~
think
that the very next millisecond blink
will be, reveal a, theater curtain rising,
a play of your composition,
a painting of your composure,
a newly cresting reason,
infinite in number,
infinitesimal aggrandizing majesty in granular shapes,
a shock so grand you say out loud willingly,
therefore, I am
the first word
of the next page or poem you turn to,
will change your No. 1 reason for living,
to your knees dropped trembling,
comprehending the renaissance of his
isperiètia (experience)
there are infinite books and infinity words,
do the probability calculation of inspiration
and confess
every sun rising, every rainbow unexpected,
every moonlight solstice,
every glance freely stolen taken,
is nature,
your nature, revealed,
unsealed
these are your unveilings,
revealing the fullness of you,
the likeness of discovery
how what we see in our uncommonality
is our communion
~~~
This year marks the quincentennial of the death of Leonardo da Vinci, the Italian Renaissance master who died in May 1519.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
There's a spot of touched impurity,
sitting in the field.
Next to all the other snow plots,
this one's beauty unsealed.
Giving warning of past times,
and no one yet has said it:
Relish the memory of touched impurity,
If only I'd have read it.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Time is a watery reflection of the universe
give it to me straight and drink with me
hold my hand and walk with me
into the steel-toed footsteps of society
my heart's supposed captor
the director of minds
the decider of dreams
and the definer of happiness
who lead your eyes to my soul's window
and allowed you to see so clearly
what I desire?
was it I myself
when i let slip
through trembling lips
all that was left of what I was
when the light threatened to expire
with words that shook the stones beneath our feet
with iron tones the empty street
with my word rings
and like the footsteps of ancient kings
can be heard for miles
echoed by the voices that dared to speak them again
my words find their rhythm
they don't need me
I'm part of a chain of speakers
as long as the hands of humanity
reach back
and longer still
as heavy as the rain that beats
growing stronger
i speak to that beat
the beat that breathes
the beat that lives
the beat that leaves
traces in our blood
like tracks on a road well-travelled
like a river after a flood
like poets of old I cling to the grass
and speculate on its origins
wishing for a moment to hear the voices
long silenced beneath its feathered stalks
I read immortal words
etched on paper as if on bone
they inspire words like the desert sun inspires thirst
no longer a passing interest
but a necessity
a sonic perscription
I watch those used phrases like clouds
forever morphing themselves into new shapes
born again to the imagination
the waters of diversity rise
bursting through the floodgates of human limitation
I put my stamp on an unsealed letter
and send it in desperation to the earth
I don't know you-
I don't know you.
but allow me to be for a moment
the page that catches your falling words
as you shed them to grow your soul anew
and i might know a piece of you
and take it as my own
I'll add my name to the list of people
who look at the night sky
and in uncertainty find themselves not alienated
but surrounded
and think their eyes too weak
or their souls too young
too see that which
in undue haste
to surpass the insurmountable
has gone to waste
and left us spinning
trying to shove meaning
into the hours during which we cannot see the sun.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
Thanks to the god that left her
The beast within
Bound here to the altar standing
Peace within
The Card is Tranquility, Balance and Stillness
Legs spread like pillars of Heaven, exquisite
Arms raised like holders of torches extended
She is calm now, has the moon light upon her
Let us begin
I call her Selene. I call her Luna
Lips touch her chin
I see her haloed in symmetry perfect
Lash touch her skin
I see her robes whipping quickly all from her
I sense her skin calling hungry for knowledge
I feel her pull now with famished excitement
Give to the lash what the lash wants to take I am
Eater of sin
Holy is the energy, Holy the night
The sphere of perfection, the urge to bite
Pierce it with thumbs, pierce and produce
From the fruit of the pomegranate, pomegranate juice
Here in the hell we have set her
Secrets unsealed
Rage of our bodies have met her
She is revealed
Mouth now to mouth is an unending chasm
Fire in the blood and the milk and the plasm
Sensations meted in rictus and in spasm
The heart of the beast is the heart of ******
What was within
Released again
I am eater of sin
Eater of sin.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
*run the hands over every
tissued cell,
race the tongue upon and under every
unsealed pore
linger, tarry,
only if you must,
here, there and where
you stop only to drink
my body's must...
lid to lobe,
crevice to mound,
uncover the obvious,
reveal the infinitesimal,
finite the desire,
end at the beginning,
fire up the cool hearth,
emblazon the shields ofordinary,
exit and enter
simultaneously
refill the apertures
with~not~my
peptones, enzymes, amino acids,
replenish my
well
then drain
well
the abscesses and repair
the wearable wounds ,
reminder remains
of prior contests,
won and lost
make me better
than well
know before,
realize afterwards
that ceasing,
never and always,
is an always never*
for this route
forever changing,
for your hands and tongue
redraw me
every time
they run the course
every time,
ever and when you
exit and enter
always and ever
simultaneous,
the course of
my flesh
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
When the rose, at dawn, unsealed its perfumed lips,
A discourse, rich as velvet, from its petals slips.
Each delicate bloom, kissed by the nascent sun,
Revelled in beauty, where all things are undone.
The breeze, a suitor with languid grace,
Whispered, “Are you not perfection, clothed in this space?”
But the rose, with a glance that was both proud and wise,
Answered, “Perfection is naught but a lie in disguise."
The sun, all fire, with its golden sword,
Declared, “In beauty alone, we must be adored.”
But the rose, poised and regal in its bloom,
Retorted, “It is in imperfection that we find room.”
The dew, with a sparkle, like pearls on the sea,
Asked, “Why, dear rose, this rapture in plea?”
The rose, with a flourish and languorous sigh,
Answered, “To live is to seek; to seek is to fly.”
For power is born in the struggle to live,
In beauty that dies, but has much to give.
Excitement is born in existence’s call—
In truth, we rise, and in truth, we fall.
The rose knows, as all great souls must,
That we are but moments—fleeting, yet just.
And in every petal, with its silken grace,
We glimpse the eternal in a mortal’s face.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 3:20 PM UTC
.
In a cavern long about the edge of time
dwells a sadness deep upon my heart,
where fragments of my imagination
cry out from a desolate vault,
iron clad and riveted
of a stone mason’s might
Welded shut, encrusted with fear
and loneliness in unsealed envelopes
addressed to someone other than me
Where neighbors retrieve and process,
regardless of names and stamped signatures,
unwilling to pay the postage now due
of an encased memory shoveled
away to linger on each crow’s feather
that falls from the reaches far above my head,
dropping square tears from round eyes,
mapping my cheeks
in solitary traces of vertical weeping
Self imposed some may say,
and they could be correct, though
when it comes to forgotten, that heart of gold,
worth more than its weight in life,
pays more attention to the fate of others
than collecting breaths of this or any
next door, across the fence wisdom
For if they hurt, those who shouldn’t,
then what is the use
With heavy stone in hand I tap,
loudly on the reinforced tarnished structure
in a series of dots and dashes,
rhythmic chaos to some,
but patterned to the beat of my heart
saying, you are loved, you are cherished,
you are needed and most importantly,
you are not alone, hoping the chanting echoes
land upon listening ears,
and you can smile once more
and I can feel it
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
'Les amoureux de la pluie'
That's the myth we share sitting across a sea of stars (table) that bound a distance rich in silence and secrets only whispered into budding tulips.
Ambiguous forms that refer to the weeping clouds to heal scarring burn wounds; we ask for you to madden our burning coal spirits with waves that seem to effervesce as they sweep by.
In those bubbles washing away the endless thoughts we conjure up over elements and matters observed.
You like the smell
of wet pavement
after it pours
And
I fail
to stop thinking
about the little things
you act upon.
The mischievous innocence that frames the corners of your smile force me to lose my structure as a lover. My hands quiver and are weaker than the red and blue fishes swimming across your blouse.
Empty unsealed cartons remind me of your wholesome frown (that i honestly adore) and opalescent evenings overseeing weary city light lit buildings.
I'm kissing the morning Sun through your burning lips, my dear. With sideburns that curl the way lashes should, they are pecking at my ears as we wrinkle these covers and fall asleep again.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Read to me about things i'll never see
Imagine I'm sitting up in a hospital bed
Cradled by white cotton pillows infused with bleach
Empty clear bendy plastic cups sit neglected
My usual lipstick stains stayed in the handbag today
Your fingertip bruises decorate me instead
I once thought:
There is no better colour than the colour that they put into your eyes
That is the colour of the liquid that they have put in the drip bag
I might not be able to picture that colour, but I recognise the feeling of it entering my body
Rusty clots and mascara dust barricade it from leaving
Maybe not immediately
Or in a weeks time
But the cells of my heart muscles are becoming saturated with the juices
Becoming preserved in syrup
Seized and breathless
I knew that from the very first time I have been a can of something
Its label torn off
Unsealed and bleeding
And we both knew Duct tape couldn't keep that together
Still my hands were cupped trying to clasp
But now Its embedded under my fingernails.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
You can be cloak
or you can be dagger.
You cannot be both;
the actor and the action. The hand, holding the hand? One foot washes the other?
The hand washing the water.
This is what we're headed for.
You want the careful parts
careless. And you want parents to be
their only child. And raise them.
You want madness because you can't
think of an answer, but it's fine because
you have all the time in the world.
Where are you hiding it all?
You say time is a clock
because you're a **** for metaphors
But a clock is just a counter.
Go count the cars that go by outside
and then tell me how many are yours.
Go count the pretty girls in the back of magazines.
Then tell me what's it's like to not be alone.
There are no rules on this stuff
written inside of stones, like geodes
and hieroglyphs in unsealed tombs.
These are not traditions, handed down so gently
like hairlines, These are not heirlooms wrapped in fine wax and tissue.
You will not find this in direct-order mailers. There is no slot in the card catalog,
There are no old wives, no urban legends or gossip.
It's not a secret. It's not a even a thought. It's simple.
You can be the instinct
or you go de-evolve.
Back to the single cell
back into the primordial, lay around the house
spend all day playing with yourself
Stimulus! Response!
That old hole in the bucket song;
Did you look inside? Did you see change,
or feel it ***
The world doesn't stay a world because you think
it might collapse. And life isn't worth living because it's
hard.
You can be fight
or you can be flight
or you can be
a rabbit hole in the hat.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
i am more than the words he spits in
my face when he is too angry to care
how heavy and hurtful they might be
i am entirely too silent and breathing
smoke into my innocent lungs that i did
not choose to inhale in the first place
i am alone in a classroom filled with
twenty-eight other students because i
can't bear the thought of rejection
i am the youngest sibling watching her
oldest brother fall to pieces on the
back porch while her mother screams
i am the only daughter listening to her
youngest brother say he doesn't care
about his family enough to live closer
i am not worth the spare change in
your wallet or an unsealed letter missing
a stamp and return address to home
i am not worth the torn edges of my
unused history book or scarred knuckes
from holding my own hand too hard
i am hardly worth the free time you
have while you're doing your homework
and think it's okay to text me lies
i am quieter nowadays because you
told me one time when i wasn't speaking
anymore that i meant something to you
i am the girl who wants olive skin and
brighter eyes and a golden crown of hair
that might make you think you love me
i am sitting at a table full of people who
say they love me but don't know anything
about me except what i decide to tell them
i am often alone on holidays because i
tend to lose interest in things that
represent temporary smiles and affection
i am telling all these lies with my bitten
fingernails and backwards hiccups but
there might be a little truth in it all
i am no longer talking myself out of
falling for you because i've convinced
myself that you might be worth it
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 10:45 PM UTC