sometimes she cries when she prays
think she's got it all worked out
sometimes the ocean only waves
never stays

she couldve held me through this
i know i dont deserve it
but ima still be selfish

im trying to be the good one here
but its so hard to hear anyone cheer me on
im working on it alright
wearing the same clothes twice
forgetting to eat
letting my phone die

"what are you going to do when im not around?"
my mind only drifts to the sound
you'll let me out
keep my mouth shut
eyes on the floor
my back to the door
can't tell anybody anything anymore

feel like youre hating me more and more

I hate how I can't sleep at night.
Why does my body put up a fight?
I yawn like I'm gasping for air.
So I lay there listening to "The Prayer".

Pulling out a pen helps me sleep.
Rather than imagining and counting sheep.
My spilled ink allows me to create a universe on a smooth surface.
Like Van Gogh with a canvas.

I write till my face hits the table.
Every night is the same, so I stay up planning my next travel.
Sometimes I'll wake tearing a page off my face.
I'll read it then throw it straight into the fireplace.

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

To taste the bittersweet nectar of thy lunar lips.
Lie me hope, sing to me the song of the helix.
Proffer me the chance to breach thy bastion,
encompass thee in my love and compassion.
Sanction me to be that one whispering love stories
in thine ear while bathing in the Aurora Borealis
dazzling and clear.
You and I, a rickety tent and a love nothing less of
heaven sent.
In mine heart thou shalt forever remain.
My panzer maid grant me...the fall of rain.

Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.