Everything you've been doing,
has been done in haste;
and so, you've slowed your pace.

Now everyday feels a waste—
but how can you waste a dream
you've yet to chase?

So clean up your space.
Accept what you cannot change.
Take your foot out of the grave—
your path can still be paved,
look yourself in the face,
make space for external grace,
and trust: all will be okay.

He is gentle and he is kind,
a golden boy—
he was like light,
refreshingly coy.

When he smiled,
it was seductively innocent.
He was everything,
for a while.
But—
he was never magnificent.

He never illuminated
like morning rays.
But in misted evenings,
he led you in a haze,
reeled you in at night,
and held you in his grace.
But—
he never,
kept you in one place.

He was cunningly alluring,
like the mystery
of the dawn.
But when the moment
is undone,
you realize—
he was never the sun.

You never asked to read the poem
I wrote about you.

And part of me knew—
what we had was too good to be true.

But was it ever really good at all?
Or just limerence,
mistaken in the fall?

Here I am again, writing—
under the willows, I weep.

Here I am again, mourning—
what I was never to keep.

I would rip out all my roots
and replant and re-bloom
just to be deflowered
if it meant I would be picked by you

She was always the poet,
but never the poem—
left aching to be unveiled,
forever waiting in the unknown.

She yearns to be a muse,
the subject of every scribe,
inked into love letters,
inspiring a guitar's stride.

But they touched her like plastic
on golden chocolate—
cast her off like *******,
forgotten and discarded.

I think a lot about the man
who drove off the Virginia pier
last year.

He sped through the gates—
a very public space,
he followed his fear,
and created his own fate.

Yet at the very edge,
he still hit the brakes.

All the rage
of his pain,
as his regret
seeped in,
he had realized
he met his end.

I feel for him,
I wept watching the news,
I feel for him,
part of me wished,
I was in his shoes.

Is it insensitive of me
to say
I wish I could
trade?

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.