if i let you

it’s not hard for something

to become my muse

it’s not hard for someone

to be the person i look to

because the moment we connect

i allow the chemicals to release

and my brain says it will be okay.

 

 

if only i could

convince

my heart.

healing

the schizophrenic

the inconsistent weather

the quickly dying grass

the wind through dead leaves

the vast black shadow

the broken pieces of glass

the words you didn’t want to say

the words you didn’t want to hear

the words you didn’t want to read

 

 

 

for you,

my clouded brain thought

you came to fix my soul

and bind wounds that i knew

i couldn’t because of your

experience and willingness

to love some broken parts of

me

we’ve told our stories

and cried our tears on

separate pillows at night

in fear of someone hearing

but

i was wrong to think that

one of these nights i

would hear your tears

alongside mine

and help you take

away your pain even though

that may have no been your

intention.

it isnt blue

my favorite color is not blue

because blue represents the color

of the man who found himself face

first on the floor chocking to death

from the lies he has told to his loved ones

 

my favorite color is not blue

because blue represents the color

of the deepest parts of the ocean

that man has always been fearful of

and the ocean that man will not explore

 

my favorite color is not blue

because blue is the complimentary

color of the house you used to live in

the house where you found your hands

on my body at the young age of three

the hands that i wished turned blue

after you drowned in your moves

and your sick twisted views

of the child youve used and abused…

 

my favorite color is not blue

nor will it be

because you were wrong

and blue can not

and will not

represent me.

 

i forgive you.

i forgive you.

i forgive you.

i’m stuck between a rock and a hard place

except the hard place is me and my

stubborn tongue with my fast moving lips

unruly hair with sweat dripping town my finger tips.

starting over is supposed to be liberating and sweet

but i cant seem to move my feet

fast enough to be on my way to progressing and

growing in the forward direction.

i wish i knew myself better

and i wish i could understand the enigmatic

part  of my minute world

but i suppose thats the point of all this.

it is my mission to one day consider all

and until then my ideas remain detached

my soul almost dried up

with the smallest amount of hope

left.