Poetry

You were supposed to be different.

The one that I didn’t have to give up on.

Someone that I could rely on.

But I turned my back and you chose her.

She who wounded me with words and threatened to do worse.

i'm addicted now;

you hand is in mine again,

i'll never be clean.

After Robert Frost's Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Do the see the world as a poem

Do you see it like I do?

Do the words slip through your fingers

Do they slip before you can open your eyes?

Do they slip like I did

thin veins rush through with

green blood and water. As if,

yearning for full boom.

We manifest our fear in our hands, as physical things; sometimes it pricks at our skin and leaves marks, sometimes it results in stiff fingers, cracking from a stiffened clench.

Close your eyes

Spin around

And point

Choose the felon

Choose the victim

Watch the tears fall

In joy

Gratefullness

Or

In sadness

Pain

Shrug

Because to you

The sun's glitter and

soft kisses from butterflies;

My heart fluttering.

My hands cup my tears,

I always come back to you.

You make me smile.

My knees grew weak I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on, the air felt thin and empty. I reached into my bag for some relief but I was met with empty packaging.

It was like your second cousin,

the one who stopped coming

to Thanksgiving

most of the time

but shows up sometimes

and you remember a picture

of her holding baby you

with blond curls and energy always

i wanted to be a writer

collected words to form my thoughts

                              to dictate what i felt but couldn't say