Writing

Is this really what it means to be American? 

To say: Only certain people can be who they are. 

To start wars. 

To cause pain. 

To put others beneath you. 

Family wears many faces— 

For some, it’s warmth and comfort, 

For others, it’s silence or storm. 

Often, we search for it in strangers, 

Bound not by blood, 

But by soul. 

I need an after,

not a happily ever after,

that's a ending,

I need something after the ending,

when my movie ends and the credits are playing I need the last clip,

the bloopers.

They were surrounded by the buzz of their counterparts moving in ripples controlled by the wind, yet they stood still. Two blades in a meadow. They need not be found, rescued, or saved. An unspoken companionship kindled by Mother Nature.

I pass by a man begging for savior,

and a woman dragging her child who's distracted by an elderly ladies puppy.

I watch as a business man late for a meeting I assume,

trips on the man asking for change.

If only I could hug

The stars;

Perhaps I could shatter them

And cup the shards

In my palms,

The cracks constellations

Aligning with my veins,

But that isn’t close enough