In school, I was always getting spoken to about the length of my sentences; I used semicolons more than anyone else my teacher had ever met and he always asked me why I didn't just end the sentence and begin again; I always told him that I was scared to end one if I wasn't sure it was finished yet; what if it wanted another chance? What if it was ready to start again? I wrote an essay in which the entire introduction was one long sentence, it went on for two pages and I had to rewrite it three times because it was not concise enough. I grew worried that I'd end up the same way the rest of my life; what if I was always too scared to end things because I wasn't sure if I would be able to start from scratch? What if I held on to one thing for too long and lost the chance of another one hatching and what if I never learned how to start fresh? I was always used to starting over, but it's different when you're older. You don't start over with the same white heart, you start over, carrying the bruises you got from fighting for years and you start over knowing that any move could be the one that ends your sentence and you start over knowing you're creating run-on after run on but you don't care as long as your words have somewhere safe to go; you don't care as long as they know they're welcome there, because god knows they weren't anywhere else.

"How will you show me your world? I am blind."

"Hear me. How do I sound like?"

"I'd say your voice is just like a nightingale. Full of love. Like an angel."

"How do I smell like?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Go on."

"Your smell... It's... addicting to be honest. Like a flower that is in a garden but its smell is so unique."

"Touch me. How do I feel like?"

"Your skin so soft. Softer than a petal of rose. Cheeks like a baby. I can imagine your blue eyes looking at me right now. You feel really beautiful."

"You don't need to see from your eyes to see my world."

let me paint you a picture
in shades of black and white
in shades of those who ****
and those who fight
this is what racism looks like
black men with paper hearts
armed with cardboard swords
white men dipped in ivory steel
white men born armed with skin
it's a black man with hands
raised to the heavens
and seeing hell as his last sight
this is what racism feels like
it's your black breath
being ****** out of your lungs
by white hands of white men
dressed in blue gilded in gold
this is what racism sounds like
it's an 18-year old's last words
it's a mother's cry at a police station
it's a bullet racing through the air
this is what racism is
it is not poetry
it's a black man wearing a red shirt
and getting shot six times
this is no crusade
there is no holy purpose
this is the star-spangled truth
a flag drenched in black blood
this is the truth bared in ink
and no poetry can save it

You told me you
              Couldn't find your way
                                     In your darkest nights
So I left you a star
               A star in every poem
                               To find your way home

You play innocent
You're the one who started this
You think it's acceptable to play with fury
By calling him a *****?

I'm sorry Bex
It seems you've been misled
I was a normal caring citizen
Of this fabulous site where I can mend

A helping hand is a healing hand
Or so I first believed
But Woody is bad and gives me reason to write
So I guess looks can deceive

I pity those by his side
He seems respectable, right?
Yet when he calls you a ***** for no reason
Well if not for that, i coulda liked the guy

Nice try Woody. I'm not as stupid as you believe. All I have to do is signout, search my name and then check my activity. Unblock me and take your punishment like a man. You're the real coward here. I'm still in school man, does it feel good to kick a kid in the ribs?

let’s be love letters
written to broken hearts
with words of kindness, of grace,
of hope.
let’s be love songs
that play over and over,
that echo in every soul.
let’s be shoulders to lean on,
open wide arms,
open wide hearts.
let’s be lights
that lead each other home.