It still crys out for help
Occasionally
It still raises its hand
Predominantly
It still asks for the will power
Accidentally
Is it scared when humiliated?
It doesn't divulge
Does it chase what is theirs?
Sometimes
Does it beg?
Never
Good looks
Does not a king make
Nice hair
A smile
Does not a king make
Cute lips
An accent
White teeth
Does not a king make
So then
Tell me
What does?
I was a boy when I first climbed the Oak,
Whose branches were so vast
They seemed to stretch out for hundreds
Of feet in all directions
Whose limbs reached and searched,
Groping for the touch of the other trees
Even though the other trees shrank away from it's majestic size
There was a barrier that I wanted to tear down
So that I might see why the other trees
Would want to withhold their leaves from the Oak
And as I struggled to climb,
Scraping my shins and tearing away the skin
From the tips of my fingers
I also found that I could dissolve my self-doubt
I reached the top at sunset
And I discovered not God
Because of this, I've long since been a
Fan of small spaces
Many times, I've made my bed in the
Nooks and crannies of those people
Who were more attractive than me
Or stronger than me,
Those who could stand up to bullies
Instead of tucking their head down and
Trying to be small
But being small is what gets
So many of us into this mess
I hated being weak, because weak made me
Be small and small made me be weak
And so I found a place
Where I could be small and weak
And it was still okay
I am both the happiest and saddest person you will ever meet.
I ask time to stop passing.
It shimmers
out of existence
for an instant before
it carries on, leaving me
with a sense of
eternity wrapped in
a droplet of sunlight.
In my room
On the top of my dresser
Sits a clock
It does not work
But still tries
To tick toc
When I'm lonely
I look at it
The smallest hand
Struggling to move
Paused on only one time
I think it might be an omen
That maybe
I need to move on
But from what?
A question
They say it's a story
By starting with
Such a line
But I can't help
To think that maybe
That's a lie
It happened
So it should be
Once upon a time
Though maybe it
All is made up
Perhaps we aren't
Even here
The people you meet
The memories you've had
That is truly
I apologize too much
They say
I don't need to explain myself
They say
It's not your fault
They act this way
In truth
I know
But my mind
Doesn't think so
I was raised
To apologize for everything
There is no changing that
I just wish
You would understand
That bad habits are hard to break
The flower is like the sun, brightening up my day.
The weed is like the dark, not knowing where you are.
The flower is like the stars, sparkling bright
The weeds are like the moon, with only one good side.
The flower as beautiful as a diamond
The weeds as big as a crystal rock.
The flower petals are like a fragile child
The weed's are like your father's unshavened face.
The flower is like a numph with gleaming hair
It flows along with the wind here, there and everywhere.
The flower bows like the eighth wonder in ones who seek upon it.
The weed grows through the concrete path unable to touch the sky. It's pushed and shoved and somehow it survives.
My eyes feast upon the flower
But heart goes to the weed.
Not everything looks better in the daylight
She was poetry
in a world
which was still learning the
Alphabet