More than i expect i would.
Each day i pray that you
Will call or write,and
When i do hear your voice
Or see your familiar handwriting
I am again alive
The way i was before you left
I never thought I'd be so lost,not knowing what to do with myself,
Who to call at night,
Who to make weekend plans with.
I miss your shy eyes and constant blush
The way someone misses shelter
When caught in a storm.
The family history
Is written on rock.
Six distinct windows,
Each facing heaven:
A corpse garden,
Full of corpse flowers.
Fogarty was the last,
And, because of the pain
Of twelve hips broken,
He never spoke
Until he joined them,
Until his hands drew blood
From stone.
I've got this big old box filled with all these roses
Aren't they fetching.
I'm strolling for hours feeling like sketching
But I stumble upon you while not having a good day,
Which leads to a rose of mine come your way.
You watch through your long lashes and grin while you outreach
But frown when it turns to ashes.
Now I have one less flower and you're still not okay,
So I give you words of advice and you're on your way.
Now I'm not okay but I am because I say I'm okay.
Just seven fetching roses all hidden in a box.
I wish they were infinite but they're not.
Soon it's another day,
Another rose.
They're not okay,
Another rose.
Her graduation was canceled.
Four long years of work,
And yet she receives a diploma in the mail,
No stage.
His games were canceled.
So much training,
And yet the field lies empty,
No crowd.
Her church services were canceled.
So many lovely people,
And yet the sanctuary stays silenced,
No congregation.
His job was canceled.
The income that kept him going,
And yet the shops keep closing,
No help.
that i left you
that i wasn't worth it
that you couldn't care less.
i'm sorry
that i don't compare
that i didn't do what he did
that you don't feel as proud.
i'm sorry
for not finishing my homework
for messing up on your quiz
for not being perfect.
i'm sorry
that i didn't tell you i was hurting
that i broke our caring promise
that i cut myself anyways.
i'm sorry
They all yell
They all cry
They all get upset
What did I do?
They all point
They all insult
They all blame
What did I do?
I tried silence
I tried helping
I tried nodding
What did that do?
I tried running
I tried leaving
I tried accepting
What did that do?
It's just a frown,
It's no big deal.
It's just some tears,
To show how I feel.
It's just dark circles,
I was too excited to sleep.
It's just a yawn,
I wasn't awake last night to weep.
It's just some silence,
There's no need to ask why.
It's just some issues I won't share,
Only hide them with a lie.
It's just a scratch,
My dogs were playing and did it.
The truth behind the lines,
Is something I won't admit.
she stands on it.
this is not about giving in,
it isn't time to quit.
this is the daily struggle,
hanging onto the cliff.
the drizzles here and there,
they hurt but do not kill.
she's known this life for quite some time
it's full of little drizzles and snowflakes.
they tickle the cliff,
chipping off small pieces, nothing much.
recently...it's been raining.
it's been pouring and hailing,
beating up on the cliff.
she cracks and groans, confused at the change.
she's not used to it...
closed my eyes
she was there
young and joyous
cancer-free
eyes full of hope and wonder
not clouded with pain
panting of excitment
not exhaustion
fur soft and clean
not falling out in clumps
walking easily
not limping and falling
i missed her
she missed me
i love her
she loves me
how many petals
must you tear
from my bud
before you care
how many times
must I cry
wishing for the past
before you ask why
how much pain
must I take
fearing the future
before you see me break
how much?
An insult is just an insult,
Until you receive them like daily mail.
A tear is just a tear,
Until you've dropped too many to count.
A stall is just a stall,
Until it knows your tears better than your parents.
A pillowcase is just a pillowcase,
Until it hears your screams as your throat turns raw.
A bed is just a bed,
Until you feel unable to get up and face reality.
A knife is just a knife,
Until it has broken your skin more than childhood sidewalk scrapes.
A razor is just a razor,
Until it has left more messages on your skin than tattoo artists do.
Self-harm is just self-harm,
Until you've done it, and you are permanently stained.
paper
crumbled
torn
still pristine
what a beautiful lie
a rose
severed
wilting
still alive
what a beautiful lie
a father
happy
now gone
never to return
what a beautiful lie
our world