Growing up there was chaos reshaping the love;
it was the cycle that gave us our dynamic.
A single thing acted like a looming shadow as it circled our warm home.
It would **** them one by one into its cold smog.
I grew used to its presence;
making me numb to its touch.
I had to settle the rest of their souls by ridding them of the darkness.
I was young but I understood pain;
I saw it in their eyes,
heard it behind a smile,
and felt it with the lingering touch -
longing to be comforted.
Eventually, the shadow turns to light.
The pain dissolved,
but I still remember every situation I made right -
the memories of the darkness still live inside me.

I imagine her skin is like
the sun,
as it caresses my body
saying warmly:
-I am sorry for the winter,
and for leaving you cold.
I am back now,
I am here.

I imagine her lips are like
mine
and when we kiss I’ll feel as if
I’m falling
gently
d
o
w
n.
Dizzy with desire.

Life is like tubing.
If you don't make an effort to hold on,
To stay on track,
You won't.
If the person closest to you shoves you,
You might slide off,
Or you could simply hang on and try harder.
If the people with you help you and
Tell you where to hold on and when to lean,
You might make it.
But even if you fall off, the driver of the boat of your life,
God, will always come around and pick you up,
Make sure you're okay,
And send you on your way again.
Life is like tubing.
Hang on and
Never lose faith in your driver.

The moon looks like an onion
Hanging in the sky
The stars are like pinholes in fabric
Through which shines a light
The trees, they look like withered hands
Along the dark horizon
Water seems obsidian
I’ll wait ‘til the sun comes again

a heart is wild
a beating, throbbing beast
held prisoner by the ribcage
hardly contained
within this bony enclosure
ready to leap
right out of my chest
and consume you

poetry runs like blood through my veins
words strung together to emote beauty
or pain, a beautiful necklace wrapped
tightly around my throat, the things
I'm dying to say dripping from
the tip of my tongue. Honey or poison,
both sticking to my gritted teeth,
unable to escape and create
the beautiful poetry
bleeding on the page