I do not have the body of David.
Sculpted and chiseled from the hands of an artist.
I do not claim to have eyes
that were kissed by Aphrodite herself.
My skin does not glow
under the scorching sun.
The world does not flock to me,
and not a lot of people
are quite fond of me.
I am not what you wanted
and what you asked for.
But this is life,
and in this life,
we shouldn't ask for more.

I may not be great at writing but

I am of the opinion that,

a poet upon closer inspection

is quite similar to a hat,

both are worn ragged and weary,

both drip water when they're teary,

both have a similar disposition,

and don't need much nutrition,

they're hung right out to dry,

either by a wife or by a guy,

are locked for hours in a room,

never overuse a broom ,

worn to cover balding spots,

or gaping holes in meager plots,

the brim on one doth shield another,

and once it's made it's got a brother,

and though one types and the other sits,

holding over gaping pits,

and though one smiles and the other cries,

and though one falls and the other flies,

and though one speaks and the other is mute,

all in all they're not so brute,  

so though a poet is not a hat,

and though a hat is not a poet,

it would escape their reason (both)

if either of them refused to show it

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

And it's moments like these
where you stop moving and the world
spins
And your body feels so heavy
like rocks, like mountains,
like the whole world is pushing down
like you're drowning
in gravity
like none of the rules of physics apply
And it's like quicksand
there's no bottom to the pit
you've dug
and no ladder, no stairway, no handholds
you're falling
And you feel like you can barely breathe
barely blink
barely live
Depression isn't something cool
not a fad
or a trend
it's a sentence
a death sentence
and I don't know whether or not I can lift it
because somedays,
like today,
it's just too heavy