When
You get fearful of failure

You lose freedom of getting success!

I am more nostalgic for the roughness of your hands than
Christmas morning in a time when I still believed in Santa Claus.
The sound of your voice when you first wake up holds a bigger place in my heart
than Jesus in a manger when I was in 2nd grade,
signing in the choir as an angel and praying like hell that I'd get into heaven when I died.
And the color of your eyes mean more to me than
the authentic reindeer string and jingle bells I used to show off.
I want to show off your thoughts
to the world and scream "This is the greatest gift of all."
God didn't lift a finger to help me get it
and I didn't lift a hand to stop from losing it
again. I look at the music you listen to every day
more often than I think of taking naps at my Vovo's house while she made bread.
I need some holiday cleaning of my soul;
to kick you out, I'll burn a hole
straight through the walls of my flesh.
And I owe you this much because you were not once second best.
I need more room to love someone who loves without waiting
instead of breaking my jaw and constantly hating
the world. I'll make it better by kissing the wounds of those
who want more than anything, when they realize they've died,
to live.

What if a heart were made of chewing gum
and the leftover clippings from bird wings
tied together with frayed ****** seat belts
surrounding a core of fake diamond earrings.
There's a song out there written about me
and over fifty-seven poems written by me,
although not one of them encompasses the longing I have
to stare into the mirror and love myself from root to tip
like a tree that's grown on the side of a cliff.
You said extended metaphors seem to be "my thing."
I say home is a song my Vovo would sing,
"Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be."
It went on to talk about the future,
but I haven't gotten that far yet.
My discount heart
will keep pumping.

she always loved breakfast in parkhurst
summertime especially
cigarette in hand
shades on
but then autumn came
and everything turned red
the same shade as her lipstick
the dogs stopped passing by
and then winter came
she sat there every sunday morning
vovo telo
sipping on her coffee, waiting as it got cold
as cold as his heart when he left her
but then it was spring
and flowers grew back
and the smiles started arriving again
and all she could do was sit there
every sunday
waiting for something that not even she knew