poem

All I see is the page / It’s all that matters but I’m not allowed to look at it, / I must suspend disbelief.

Empty classrooms / Green trees at exactly noon / Music we all heard that one time / All of the above combined / Into the perfect moment.

Do you hate me sometimes / for worrying you.

and They said I was one of the lucky ones/ the ones chosen to live.

I’m crushed as he speaks with such hate of my name.

The two of them: / A mother and her little girl / Feeding the ducks.

I’m lonely and infatuated. / With you, and only you.

You are the magic of the pen, / the confessions of a soul broken and mended alike, / a hand to hold, / company to keep, / a precious bond that cannot be broken, you are- / Real to me.

Every year, one more poem in free verse— / Still frames of silent tears and raucous nights / Snapshots documenting my best and worst / An artist’s impression of maturity and moonlight