Isn't it coincidental

 Isn't it coincidental 

how I decide to wait

how my heart & mind 

has been the ice 

keeping me frozen in time.

Isn't coincidental how 

the silence continues, but

when the opportunity of me 

breaking it arises 

I can not break free, 

no, I still stay frozen in time, 

not being able to break the tension that wraps around my body, 

making me unable able to say 

what I need to,

to break this curse of your echoing voice

to alleviate any unused space in my brain,

to unclutter my heart 

from the litter 

you tend to leave 

everywhere you once were 

like breadcrumbs 

however, every time I try to follow the paths you leave 

I always end up lost

somewhere I shouldn't

willing to do stuff,

say stuff &

go elsewhere I shouldn't, but

you never cared

where that'll lead me

you never cared 

about the repercussions

I'll later have to live with

after following your lead.

don't you think it's coincidental how all this love that's 

going on in the month of February,

all this time that's been going on between us,

a constant battle 

of will they won't they

of speak don't speak, but yet

I'm still not convinced 

that love really does conquer all

that despite us meeting 

we still really haven't met yet, but

yes, I love you.

a complete stranger 

that I can easily pick up 

where we left off

during every love at 

first sight glance

 

 

 

In retrospect

 is waiting healthy,

telling your subject of a body

that though the true king who made you

is already here,

you are to continue without an amateur king & 

are to wait for his return,

for him to take the responsibility

he has not yet taken,

to sit upon the thrown 

he has not yet sat in,

to put the crown on his head

he has not yet worn &

to claim the queen

truth be told he has yet to fall in love with, but

yet they all wait.

She waits for the sun and moon 

to rise in separate skies,

for days to pass and seasons

to change on separate earth's

all in his absence.

They waiting for a ruler,

who acts like their ruler

not the dark side of the moon 

never seen.

Yet, as life goes on

so does his adventures during

his disappearance,

lollygagging whimsically with 

ocean tides

that is different than most treading lightly on melting thin ice

almost frostbitten by the wind

that says

stay away from the shoreline,

but that's where

his people and lady waits,

never mind them and the kingdom

their in is one in the same.

All while she

waits for the dreams to stop

almost just as the room spinning had, but

she waits for the impossible to end it all at once & permanently.

They wait to be told to be somebody or something

other than nobody had told them 

to become.

When will this cycle end &

when will this retrospect be rational?

Elusive dreaming is only possible 

when you are actually able to dream,

when you don't have to push against your own shadows,

or the universe to rest.

However, when fighting in the internalized war of sleeplessness &

how it never seems to end, but 

while in an insomniac state

everything around you seems almost as restless as you are,

the pillows & covers surrounding you sing to you,

the verses tell you stories of the sleep that

just seems so damn out of reach.

The walls that surround you,

all seems to be growing in size

like unescapable jail cell bars, but

you're only a young girl,

who wishes to live in the world behind her eyelids, but

at this very moment,

all that seems to be an even more distant dream,

as a transparent silhouette of a woman

dangles a dream catcher in front of you,

just out of reach on a fishing line,

maybe if I catch it,

I'll be able to sleep tonight.

Groundbreaking, Break - realization - Up

 Breakups plastered on 28 lines

as if stickers on a masterpiece.

The us, we tend to hide,

takes hours to manifest like

planting seeds in the ground

with almost a sense of certainty of the outcome &

how good it'll be.

Stop trying to control

the uncontrollable, 

the unknown trouble

that will be thrown your way on the daily.

The wake-up call

you'll endure

will be no different than standing

in front of a person with a gun

saying "Here bullet, a dreamer,"

that gun would be none other than 

their mouth &

the bullet would be their words

with no other intent than for distractions.

What do you want?

What do you hope to achieve in this matter?

They say stricks &

stones may hurt my bones, but

words will not harm me, but

if those words are made out of

concrete cement &

once they make an impact

upon your already fragile body

do you really still think

you could sing

do you think you'd be able to keep your spirits high?

While feeling that pain?

What I Never Wrote

 It's as simple as looking in the mirror,

not knowing if my eyes are playing tricks on me or

if that person looking back at me really isn't me at all,

nor even really isn't someone I know or

even really someone who should be classified as a someone at all, but 

is really nothing more than a silhouette of nothing,

a manifestation of fear

of being the nothingness I know 

I've felt like in the past &

saying absolutely nothing, but

even that silence starting that flam 

to kick off a forest fire like a house party

I already know I can not contain the damages.

Believe me, I know I've been here before, but yet

still a fool for not learning from the landmines

that without warning killed parts of me 

where she stood. 

I know what you are going to say,

something about the fact

I haven't even fucking tried yet, but

still, I'm bitching & moaning about it,

as if it had just happened out of the blue &

there wasn't warning signs along the way,

that I blew off like an anxious teenager

ignoring the back of a cigarette box,

not caring about repercussions, but 

wanting to come crawling back for help

after ignoring the help

just like you've seemed to have convinced yourself

that's all I do in my poems, or

is the only true reason why I've been so depressed lately.

Or something along the lines with that I need to keep my chin up &

keep pushing on, but

as far as I'm concerned 

it would be harder for me to tell you

all of what I have not yet written.

About how this is not my first uncomfortable tango 

with the touchy old skeleton that is my mental health

nor is it with the toxic boy that is my silence,

that has his own way to touch me,

to hold his hand over my mouth

while whispering lullabies of insecurity,

that he convinced me only he could protect me from or

the first time that I've been left with nothing, but 

the devastation that both of them caused once 

I gathered the guts to ever fight back & speak my mind,

leaving me with the wildfire aftermath

once the flams my words sparked finally caught up with me.

It's as simple as me not turning my struggles into metaphors, but

asking you without the metaphors 

I swattle my struggles in like newborn babies,

what more are they than what seems normal for others to have?

I tell you that it's all that I haven't written,

all that I allow myself to keep hidden in its storage,

somewhere nobody, 

not even my parents would bother to try & read into.

Somewhere that when my silence finally allows me to love again

my lover won't ever have to worry about seeing all the scares that I still hide from everybody.

I know, I know I think about it too much,

I know it almost seems as if I overthink as much as I breathe or

as if I sleep & want to dream as much as I

plaster a smile on my face just wide & bright enough

for you to compliment me, 

dig a hole deeper and deeper, six feet below,

so it won't easily resurface to haunt 

In the future, I keep trying to find shelter in

It's as simple as looking at an old photo book &

being able to tell you about the mental war that took place behind that smile or

how uplifted I actually felt just to be able to be genuine enough to smile again.

"Oh, here we go again. Making up stuff like the world is a stage,

like every conversation I have with you is a long storytime," but

what you don't know is all the poems that I've written out of spite & 

thrown them to the side of existence,

making them as if never being written at all.

It's as simple as being told they love me,

the they being a male outside of my father,

possibly, someone, I feel the same right back,

me feeling like maybe they meant this time,

yet feeling as if it's too little too late, but 

still wouldn't dear become vulnerable enough to tell him that  &

literally, feel whatever is left of me digging herself

six feet deeper within myself,

having died from a PTSD induced heart attack,

one that trapped her in an always lasting 

cold clammy sweat

all alone without real context,

of what happened in real-time

without a proper barrel, but 

then again what family would 

even be left to mourn her death?