My aim today
Is simply to
Make you smile
It's what I do
As you sit
Behind your desk
Take a moment
To digest
This little rhyme
It's sent with love
To wrap you up
Just like a glove
Your day's mundane
Your job's a bore
But soon you'll walk
Out of the door
Into the sun
Where lovers kiss
Under the trees
And you'll feel bliss
But if all else fails
I hope with grace
I've put a smile
Upon your face!

(C) Pixievic

the
babbling brook
with
winter snow
she
did not know
which
way
that
spring would flow

Your kindness
a sunflower
whose many seeds
sustain the sparrow's
song of joy
and rest assured
do gorgeously
germinate in
thin-hulled souls
the soil is ripe
love yearns
to be reborn.

i swear i write every word just to reach you.
everything i do is to teach you , to understand how i need to be loved, with the coldest distance that keeps me warm at night.
love me carefully, please

she says report, report, report it
i’m trying to tell her
how difficult it was
to even disclose to her
how my ribs
turned into seatbelts.

Why** can't I be happy?

Actually...
                 why can't I feel it?

                                                    I know I'm loved,
                                      but my mind can't comprehend it...

                                            My anxiety just screams
                                          "NOBODY LOVES YOU!"
                                        "YOU'LL LOSE THEM ALL!"
                               Maybe I should just push everyone away now
                                  and find comfort within these four walls.

                           Because it seems like If I have nothing left to lose
                 I'll no longer have to go through with this self mental abuse.

Never been there.
Can't talk about it much.
I've seen shadows on the wall.
Crying faces in my dorm hall.
I've seen reflections of friends
in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD.
Can't talk about it much.
It's not a subject I like to touch.
Never been there.
Never talking like I've seen it all.
They have. Ask them what it's like to fall
down and check your face for scrapes
and have other people put band-aids
on your ***. ("Oops, my mistake!")
Or better yet, don't.
Don't ask me.
Don't ask them.
They can talk.
I've never been.

If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend.
But don't ask. Don't reopen the PTSDen
of pain and the past. Just listen if they ask.
Have some ******* courtesy till then.