i'm walking home alone
the tide is high
i can smell the salty marsh
the light is enveloping but soft
a watercolor painting
descends upon me
golden hues of orange and pink
are hanging above

Today someone told me
i wouldn't get very far
because i love writing
not science
because i love literature
not mathematics
because i love using my mind to create
not replicate
i'm sorry
but these are the only things
pushing me to pull the covers
off my body every morning
so they will to have to be enough
i'm sorry for your closed mindedness
i'm sorry for your blindness
i hope that this disability of yours
has not stopped your dreams
and it sure as hell won't stop mine

Today as I look upon the hues in the sky
like pinwheel art
flaring and burning out
slowly softer,
such a perfect light
complementary to all
it caresses
I am saddened
as I realize
my most treasured time of day
is the one closest to its end
forcing me to notice
how little time I have left
with its beauty
till the night comes

its better
if i'm not completely
outwardly content
because
when my room is clean
my grades are good
i've finished applying to colleges
and i'm getting along
with everyone
then there is nothing left
that upsets me enough
but doesn't scare me badly

so

my mind gets left with too much time
on his meddling hands
and he starts creeping
around the backyard
and digging
up past tortures
to taunt me with

my eyes hurt all the time
like i've just been crying
i think i'm just tired
its hard to focus on what anyone is saying
nothing is satisfying me
what am i working towards?

i can't do anything except
listen to music and stare
at nothing

the things i used to be good at
are no longer my talents it seems
i've let things slip away
i mean look at this poem!
it's a ****** mess
no effort put into it
but you see i just can't right now
i'm all strung out
i don't really feel anything

my feet are reluctant
and bare
the snow curdles under my toes
i cannot feel them anymore
i don't know why i am walking
in this direction
towards the cemetery
where your body lies
but resisting is hopeless

sometimes i wish you were ashes
because all i can do is imagine
what is happening underground
alone
your vanilla skin purpling and grey
your plum lips picked too soon
now shriveled lines
ice covering your eyes
that used to reflect your thoughts
and that
there is no one to cradle you through the winter

other things i will not say out loud

but no matter what we try to believe
you are not on this earth anymore
so why bother pretending
it only fills me with grief

i'd like to say that poetry could be my profession
but that would be like saying
that spewing my emotions and dark thoughts
across the shelves of a bookstore
is a profession.
i could never make someone clean that up.

(and still face them again)

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and the raindrops roll down the pane
and the breath fogs up the place
where a hand lay
when the mind was transfixed
on headstones and graves

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and the eyes are dry caves
and a sailor's knot sits in the stomach
with no one to untie it
but just like milk
emotions have an expiration date

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and people are driving cars
and picking the last donut from the box
while someone is in a bathroom stall
hand and heart gripping tight
on something sharp

i want you to
sing the words 'i love you'
but pant the words 'i want you'

some may think me a pessimist
even i begin to think so some days
but then there are things like lentil soup
tastes like mama's dinner bell laughs
and yesterdays that have lost their prowl
and it's also healthy?
a thing with no flaws
seems too good to be true
but it is true, it is.

i am not a person of many things
i have only a small family
one brother
i spend my days
using the same few things
over and over
i haven't many followers on social media
or in real life
my grades are fine
though i have not as many points as you

but i have sung thousands of lines, verses
i have birthed hundreds of poems and stories
some not written down
but they have still existed in my mind
and in that space between
spoken and unspoken
the pen
drips gold into my soul
whether real or metaphorical


i am wealthy in my ways