Every time I think I'm free,
I'm reminded that I'm not-
Years of separation,
Distance, even blocked.

A helping hand from you
Has always been a trap
Wrapped up in bows,
Pretty, but you'll snap.

I always stand my ground,
Cover my walls in spikes,
Until I think about the little boy you were-
You didn't mean to grow with so much spite.

That's always my downfall-
The child in me sees the child in you,
And I just want to save him,
But only you can save him from you.

So I keep taking these setbacks,
Hoping to show you some light,
But you leave me beat and bruised
When I only wanted you to feel less alone on your darkest nights.

I want a friendship,
Be cordial at least,
But there must be something in me
That makes you so ******* mean.

Still, you don’t let me stray far-
If you can’t have me, no one will.
I want to know sweet love while I’m young,
But maybe that prophecy was never mine to fill.

What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly, and I'm in classes!

A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.

My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.

Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”

I’d come out of the hotel en-suite in one of their fluffy, Versace, terry towels but invariably, before I was even dry,  Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up
(he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.

This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
.
.
Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

Not like an ordinary man;
Lesser, filthier still.
I'm a mirror; an imitation,
Whose existence only grows shrill

No thoughts are wholly mine
No desire my heart would spin
I'm a fluid searching a vessel
Just to mold itself in.

No heights have I conquered,
Those marches weren't mine
I am no climber of pursuit,
In no success will I dine.

In no reality will I exist,
Even my dreams aren't of me
I'm not a dreamer in this dreamy world;
Only nightmares residing in me.

Poems DON’T bloom—
They rupture.
They ignite,
Like a fire in your soul,
Waiting to explode,
Like gasoline in a burning room.

Poems
Are those
Who land deeper than the largest crevasse—
Those that leave you glaring,
Wide—unblinking eyes.

Waiting for the next punch
To your heart,
Like music crashing into your body
When you have the volume too loud.

Poems are meant to claw,
To rip,
Open your ribcage,
To smear
Your blood—pain—EVERYTHING
In front of you,
To show you it’s okay
For ALL to exist;
To trick
Your heart
To love,
Hate,
To turn fear
Into fate.

There are supposed to drip blood
In words that were NEVER meant to be said.

Every line,
Something I couldn’t bellow,
So I sharpened
My words like a knife,
Till my words bled
Blood—
I could never give back.

I LIVE for blood,
I LIVE for pain.
I LIVE for the world to not
Care
What it’s left for me,
What the world’s done to let me decay.

Each verse of silence,
Each verse of pain,
Each verse of anger,
Of shame,
Or hate,
Of love,
IS YEARS
OF SWALLOWING
MY OWN BLOOD.

YEARS.
OF HATING MYSELF.
YEARS.
OF NOT TRUSTING ANYONE
Who said…
“I’m here,”
“I’ll listen,”
“I’ll help.”

LET THAT BURN.

YEARS.
OF PAIN.
YEARS.
OF SHAME,
FOR WHAT THEY DID,
FOR HOW THE WORLD
TAUGHT ME WRONG.

You call my poems BRAVE!?
…THEIR SURVIVAL.
THEIR BLOOD.
I WAS NEVER
ABLE TO PUT BACK
IN MY BODY.

Poems are my baggage;
Each weighs—
A ton.

What is a poem?
A POEM?
It’s the moment before you scream,
When you realize you can’t say
What’s digging into your mind.
It’s rhyming stanzas
Disguised as hatred.
It’s love
Dressed as rhythm.
It’s pain
Hidden
As syllables,
Each word—my teeth.

Poems are MEANT
To be messy,
MEANT
To be ugly,
MEANT
TO LIVE—

Even when others
Think they shouldn’t have ever
Lived that long,
When you’re told to leave it in your head.

You want a Poem?
SIT in my blood.
I’LL sit in yours.
I’ll comfort you,
If you do the same.
I’ll be there in your brightness,
And in your darkness,
With the faint glow of the candle
To illuminate
Your shattered
Ship.

Writing is a freedom;
It’s everything
Anyone could need.

A poem doesn’t need to be perfect—
…just…let it be you.

THAT’S what a poem is MEANT
To do.

weeping purple leaves
bowing her curly tight head
swinging lithe limbs
singing in shadows old

time hymns. Redbud
lavender pea flowers
they call ruby falls. Amusing
the hours surfing on  

a begotten breeze. Skimming
the water looking for ducks,
frogs and geese. Some say she's
lonely. Some say she's blue. Grey

clouds befall her all standing in
queues. She mingles with dewdrops
and jingles in rhyme. Spending her time
flirting with sunbeams, tracking

herons looking to dine. The bellow of
bullfrogs paint a crimson smile,
while spilled perfume of lilacs dancing
in showers has her laughing for hours.