People ask me
what I'd like to be when I'm older.
Dumbfounded, I am left.

Not because I'm not ambitious,
not because I have no dreams,
but because I am electrified.
Exhilaration numbing all words.

Yet with all that joy
fear so elegantly prances in my dreams.
Fear of failure,
loss of desire.
That everything I've ever wanted
will crush the cord of paralyzation.

Post the detour
of invasive claims,
I remember who I am.

A person who lives in the moments
during the day,
and is wishful at night.
A comforting balance.

In the day
eyes shine bright
with gratitude.
For the future is unknown
while the now is wildly understood.

At night trepidation flees,
whilst reverie is on its knees.
For in this world,
a star-lit sky sets no limits
on who I want to be.

Those we admire
are just like us . . .
                                    Human.

Blood flow pursuing verbatim paths.
Lungs expanding to the same formula.
Muscles reacting to similar nutrients.

But I'm skeptical . . .
on whether their heart beats
as mine does.

                                      With blissful affliction.

Has their cerebrum been invaded
with the airborne infection of confusion?

Uncertain if they fear the way I do
I wonder . . .

"Have they. . .

Cried over a hiatus of failure?

Panicked through the unknown?

Wished upon futile speculation?"

So tell me.
Have you?

I used to lie awake at night.
Thoughts buzzing in my sore mind.

Of what went wrong
in order for it to go right.

I used to read their agony,
in hopes that mine would flee.

In search of poets with my despair,
thumbs went numb,
eyes dried out,
and I felt dumb.

Now I know how much I’ve grown.
For I now scroll in search of art,
how it should've been from start.

Tonight I find myself
reading authentic work,
your personal rumination.

Old afflictions
aiding in the annihilation
of unworthy reflection.

That's the beauty behind words.
They don't remind us of our pain,
they depict how much we’ve gained.

The best love to encounter
is the type within friendships.

That's the type of love
I'd truly hate to waste.

Where we are there no matter what,
where we forgive despite the odds.

Where we express the indescribable
without the fear of misconception.

That's the love
I love to give.

It’s funny how they say time heals.
Yet every second that passes
We near an inevitable illness.

It’s 4 am and I can’t help but wonder
How we live with the knowledge
Of the pain within others.

Within those with no shelter.
No resources.
No freedom.

It’s 4 am and I’m confused
On how we dare harm our planet.
Our home, our everything.

How we prefer to feed our needs
Rather than spare the earth
A bit of torture.

It’s 4 am and my heart aches
at the thought of intentional harm.
At the thought of incompetent behavior.

Overproduction of animals, plastic,
Cruelty.
Just for the consumption of greed.

It’s 4 am
And my previous mistakes
Of careless, selfish actions
Rightfully taunt me.

Sharp face
of allegations.
Innocence carved through the edges.
October eyes,
like star-filled skies,
and a sun-kissed mouth
with words that pound.

In the hollows of an ally,
she leaned alone,
on top of scars that hibernate
on silver legs.

Worn out, she was.
in pain, she walked.
and as she left,
hope had remained.
Whom had filled
her once lit eyes,
who had felt her cries,
who had been there
the whole time.