waiting for a
real voice

but when i
did not respond
for a mere second

they hung up on me

The doves, the doves
they fall from the heavens
for you, love

The doves, the doves
at your feet
they bow and kiss
your sores
heal your wounds

The doves, the doves
in your locks of brown and bark
they tangle
bring flowers for you
sprinkle their petals into your strands

The doves, the doves
they breathe your scent
lavender incense,
the first snow of winter,
trees and moss

The doves, the doves
lost in your eyes,
agleam, a striking color
mimicking the forests,  
soft,
kind

The doves, the doves
they melt
at the chime of your voice
you laugh
you sing
like jingling bells
riding the winds

The doves, the doves
they worship your compassion,
the way you stroke their necks
and kiss their beaks
with such ginger touches,
absolutely mesmerizing,
ruffling their feathers

The doves, the doves
will follow you
until their wings
no longer sprout feathers
they will raise generations
to fill their spaces
to continue their love
for as long as you live
they will love you
your children
and your children’s children

The doves, the doves
will cry tears
of sunflowers
when you pass
and will scorn the Gods
when they take you
from them.

I opened the bottom drawer
of her bedside table
to look for a lense cleaner
when I found
she had taped
the poems I ripped
back together

—not like this.

There is anger hiding in my throat. These days it’s hard to identify. I can’t tell why I’m mad and who I’m mad at.

2:33AM on the clock(s) and I wish my eyes could close for hours,
days even. But I’m still sad, I’m still angry. There are some things
unresolved.

I don’t know what they are, though. I don’t know if the voices can
hear me inside these headphones, I don’t know if they’ll listen to reason.

2:35AM hits those clock(s) and suddenly I understand everything.
I’m not myself anymore. I’m not who I wanted to become,
I’ve changed into something worse.

I’m ashamed of my flaws, my mouth which rambles and startles
along those tracks under the train of thought. I don’t understand.

What keeps you up at night?
What makes you hate yourself?
What makes you want to die?

Why can’t I answer these questions?

the floor
is not as
steady
as it used to be

Dear God there is something in the air at night. I can taste it on my tongue, feel its musk caress my skin as I sleep—I know it’s out there waiting for me.

Dear God it undresses me with its eyes. Whispers to me, licks my ear with its spiked tongue. It drives me crazy.

Dear God it wants me to die for it, tells me that if I do it will grant my wishes unattainable by normal standards.

Dear God I’ve never been one of your children. Though I bathed in your good graces while your loving follower prayed to you, my allegiance was never solid.

Dear God at night I know you’re watching, but it’s not really you.

Is it?

Destroyed city scapes lifted from concrete prisons,
old white men in traditional Native-American headdress,
a broken sky with holes dropping satan-spawn...

Flowers turning to sickly people,
their petals becoming their bodies,
their stems becoming their eyes,
their pollen becoming polluting coughs.

Eyes crying infected blood,
teeth dripping sour milk,
stomachs shouting for more bread crust,
hands becoming stubs,
unable to grasp the meaning of life.

Noses expelling gastric juices,
legs becoming hairy arms,
hairy arms becoming the nostrils,
does becoming pointed talons,
clawing away at the filaments,
of flesh and bone.

There is always method
to my madness.

Sorry
I can't cry
unless
there's music playing
that will
make me reach inside myself
dig out the cluster ****
of suppressed nonsense
and spill it out

In truth, I am terrified of this body—
I am terrified of what I put in it
and of what eventually comes out.

I worry repercussions are at hand—
there will be consequences in the near future
because of what I’ve put into this body,
and it will no longer be mine
by the time I die.

But, maybe soon, if I’m lucky,
I will evolve,
I will break out of these
naturistic characteristics,
I will survive natural selection…

I will spread my wings
and take my first flight.

you are dangerous
even with fake memories
the hope never died



petals will drown me
in the comfort of their scent
I trust nothing else



can you hold me once?
it does not need your feelings
just let me touch you



in the dim light here
I can imagine your lips
staining all my skin



aching and waiting
we flourish only to die
that's no life for me

It's strange--
When I think of darkness
as a sentient cloak
with kisses soft as fluff
and voice hushed like wind,
with an understanding attitude
willing to use its body as
a fortress to protect me
from the cruelty of the outside
   I see the light as something negative
   I forget the Sun is trying His best
   I forget He does not mean
   to shed light on unfortunate things
   He's just trying to guide me
   to warm me
   so that I may start again
   hands out and ready
   to push myself up after I fall
   though His rays of light
   may sting my eyes
   I adjust
   and keep going

What do I know of this Blue Bird?
Absolutely nothing.

I know It flies so high into the pink of the sun,
It migrates south one year then comes back
north for the next.

I know It likes to sneak Its eggs
into other nests to ensure Its brood
survives.

But really,
that’s all I know.

I know nothing significant—
I know not what It feels,
what It thinks,
I do not see Its memories as a young chick
learning to fly, to hunt.

All I know is that it's blue
and likes to crack nuts with
Its sturdy black bill.

This is about me—
I’m going to make it that way
because, unfortunately,
that’s all I know.

These days
focusing on the positive
in every situation
does not happen with me.

It’s waking up to open the curtains
and realizing there was
no sun to begin with—
you have only ever seen
that dark sky
and the stars.

Something must be wrong with me
and that’s all I know.

There is no energy to
dig deeper
within myself or
within the depths of
knowledge, vast in the growing
planet we call home.

There is a vastness of people
I can’t seem to love,
to understand,
or to even hate.
But why?
Why do I have to harbor these feelings?
Why do I have to accept them?

I have a choice, right?
Right?

Why do we listen to sad music
to make us sadder?
Are we so drained and empty
that we cannot shed those tears
unless those lyrics,
those harmonies,
those sounds,
kick us in the heart?

Why aren’t I special?
What did I do wrong?
Why am I so tired?
Where did all my energy go?
Where did I go?

I am sorry to those I have failed,
to those I have angered,
to those I have saddened
and confused.
I don’t want you to worry about me,
but these days I can’t seem
to control my emotions.

I can’t articulate anything.
I can’t tell you what I’m feeling,
I can’t tell you what I’m seeing,
or what I’m hearing
because I don’t know
how to explain it.

How do I tell you that I hate
and admire you simultaneously?
How do I tell you I’m proud of you
but also jealous of your success?
How do I tell you I hate myself?
How do I tell you I’m fine
but have depression?
How do I tell you I’m confident
but also anxious?
How do I give you all my trust
only to shield it from you?
How do I tell you I’m paranoid?

How do I tell you
I don't feel
real anymore?

I wish
I was good enough
for myself

Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets
as they try to hide from the two-legged monsters,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

Now, these cats are innocent beings, but the world still sees
these rulers of the night as demons, the haunters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

to pray for poor Lulu, once a gentle and upbeat
stray, now nothing more than a beaten piece of meat, a goner.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

These two-legged fiends thirst for the warmth of blood, to defeat
the plague of evil omens these cuddly harlots seem to foster.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

sick and mangled from the Devil’s calling group, two-legged deceit,
what was thought to be love was in truth, an imposter.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

A fluffy body hung from the balcony by a copper cable marks the ritual complete, the black tufts of fur serve as a reward to those monsters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

This is stupid
and stereotypical,
I know.

Every poet asks themselves,
"Am I really a poet?"

Every poet reflects on
their surroundings, their life,
their thoughts.

Every poet has been sad
more than once
in a day.

We're all emotional,
we're all craving release,
an outlet to drain away
the sorrows,
to give our feelings
a physical form.

But in this poem,
I want you to know something:

it's okay to not be okay,
it's okay to feel like ****,
it's okay to give up.

It's okay to give yourself to pain,
let go of your surroundings and
shrink into yourself.
It's okay to want to die.

Do you know why?

Once you understand this
and acknowledge it,
you are free to change.

You are free to pursue whatever
happiness you desire,
to give yourself to bliss
rather than to guilt.

It's okay to want things,
it's okay to feel undeserving
when you do.

It shows you're not stuck
in one place,
intentionally or not.

You are human,
forever changing and
evolving.

You are still young and growing.
So make your mistakes while you
still feel the need.

My dear,
you are not perfect.
You will never be perfect,
and that's okay.

Because if you were perfect,
it wouldn't be you.

If you are not one to place blame
on yourself
create voices in your head.

They will be the versions of you
who dictate the rules of your body,
they will tell you what to say
and what to do—

so when you make a mistake,
say the wrong thing,
act the wrong way,
to the eyes of someone
unsuspecting,
you will at least seem kind enough
to blame yourself.

In the sun's rays
   I burn
      I burn away the ants and
         dirt.
            I burn away the sun.

What does it mean
when you feel absolutely nothing
as someone (my mother) tells you
they miss you?

Why don't you reciprocate?
Why don't you feel their love
through a phone screen?

the meadow calls
in many forms

the pages
of these books

the subtle cry
of piano keys

the tears from my eyes
as I remember
who I miss

the pond is shallow
the water is murky

i can't see my reflection
the water keeps its ripples
because every time i see
my face i want to
cry loudly because i am
just as thin as water
just as shapeless and unassuming

the water is murky

because my shoes are muddy
and i keep kicking up

rocks

an arrow through the ears
straight shot
an indian killing the voracious
white man
the disastrous white man
who ***** **** up
and calls people by
the wrong *******
country

is this clarity
or hormones?
how awful
i cannot tell the difference

is that even fair?

the body i am meant
to love
to trust
to protect

can't even tell me
the truth

When you love someone
optimism
spurs incentive
gives you reason
to overlook
the red flags
hanging about their castle
no matter how
sporadically
they flow in the wind