Writing

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

Must we take the road displayed to us now,

With trim and tidy hedges to our side?

Curated by the hands that don't allow?

The hands that act if yesterday we died.

And if beyond we go this dreary road,

The world stops. 

Time stops. 

People stop. 

You're there and he is not. 

How is this fair? 

-- free would,

& all the spiraling connotations that come

in the afterthoughts of it, the explanations,

the tin bucket full of pieces with bark still on

for no one wants something they could've had. 

Sometimes i have to remind myself to breathe 

I have to remind myself i am worth loving 

I have to remind myself that one bad day doesn’t define me

Who was I before the world told me who to be?

Who was I before I started changing for people?

Who am I when I have so many versions of myself I've let down?