My periods turn to semicolons
My suicide notes to poetry
My goodbyes became hellos
The blades turn to sunflowers
And the bullets, a rose
My heart still is broken
But the pieces have been found
Death isn’t for me anymore
What is, in the here and now
I still don’t feel enough
But I am alive
And that’s enough to say
Today is not the day I die.

And I, my person
Will never stop singing
poetry about you.
You are my Her, Red
the passion
the stroke of my pen
the ink to my veins
And I knew no art
but I  persevered
to draw your everything
in my head, my being
so when I close  my eyes
you are my dream
and I wake up again
because you are my present.

i want to talk about you
to everyone i know
i want to shut my mouth
and keep you to myself
my heart flares up
explodes with thoughts of you
and i can't catch the words
and i can't catch my breath

In the crook of my sanity
sat this poor little me
bereft of reason
naught of gold
one with the concrete
so cold and bold
not for wisdom
never for hope
full of wishes
for food and cloth
if I beg, will it stop?
if I cry, will I drop-
if I jump, will it be better?
and I could laugh
and cry
and tell them I am
still, still stuck there
now, better at hiding
full of warmth
from my blood sweater
sewn from shame
and disappointment
it never gets better
it only gets quiet
and you drown in silence
and acceptance,
that fate is this
it is meant to be.

to the friend, the stargazer
do you still write poetry?
do you still scribble your haikus
with bravery and flare?

I have come back to the homeland
but I did not see you there
when you used to be the constant
that would pop up in my head

I guess we all decided to travel
beyond the calming plains
out there in the open
throwing writing to the wind

I have lost my little sparkle
matches are all that's left
I might've dropped the candle
that my poetry has built

If you see this, dear friend
I hope you write again
I would love to see your haikus
in this lovely little page

I let the sparkle float the air
surrounded yellow, oh so, frail
for it, I could reminisce
for she is, my Everest

I have forgotten how to write,
nothing came to empty mind
darkness always made me rhyme
grief, the anger, and, of spite

but, she, my ever-rest
took me off the scary edge
led me to secure-ity
against all my diverse-ity

Wordplays are beyond me
[create-TV-tea]
but I had it, and it is
so I go back without the rest
and pause,
period,
leave.