PowerfulWriting

i am a wounded child, puff-faced from blows and boastings, heart a target full of arrows and appraisals. i am a stubborn child, cross-armed to keep intruders out, to bar any chance of letting new ideas and people in that would disrupt what i already know to be true. i am a bullied child, using words to lure my assailants in so i can use my fists to do the rest. i am a proud child, standing tall on legs that place me higher than the other children, but make me bump my head on my own hubris. i am a child, an excuse i use beyond those years to combat the adult idea that children can't understand what life means when they

Oh you, conqueror boy, your gaze captures the dreams of telescopes. You alone walk against the milky fibers of the fire-filled cosmos, flung arms flush with sacrosanct sublimity. What terror have you not vanquished, what ambition have you not grasped? Your lashes hold the beauty of a thousand dying skies. Why, you, joyful boy, would never find yourself scribbling lamentations in ballpoint pen onto bettered bathroom stalls, begging some other body to spark you back alive, or crying yourself awake in the quiet of the night underneath the mantle of an indifferent moon--no, the great lakes of your smile can screen even lonelier lights. You, boy

The faces turn to paper The paper turns to flame The flame turns to smoke And the city is empty again The longest moment of our lives as you fell Three thousand heartbeats-- The last four were mine, when there was emptiness Where once stood life And when a smiling face Reduced to smoke and ashes, A memory like dust in my eyes. You think that I'm just a kid Staring into a world I don't yet understand Where you're grabbing a gun And claiming justice for these ashes But under these ashes Is my home And I'm trying to put the towers Back together I'm trying to hold the sky up on my shoulders So it doesn't fall on us again Under these ashes Is

From a mother to her child If only I could have held you for an instant, perhaps I could have told you what I really wanted for you. Because it certainly wasn’t this, whatever this is. If I could have seen you, glimpsed the colour of your brown-blue eyes, seen your dimples or lack thereof, just so I could better imagine you. If only I was able to look after myself, as well as you… Little Johnny Martello from up the street came in today. I was minding him because Mr. Martello was still at work and Mrs. M was at the doctor’s. He’d be as old as you, or near enough. Thin black hair cropped short, shorter than I’d

I feel your heart Beating softly with mine A pure harmony Burrowing deep inside Crescendos and allegros— intertwining mirrors of our actions, your baritone echoing my alto, our hearts the metronome to the rhythms of our voices lifted raised in the wordless music of our song. Though I don’t know the words I merely sing the melody letting the beating of our hearts slowly lead me to the words waiting inside The cavernous organ where words coalesce and convalesce, unearthing phrases yet unspoken and thoughts undisclosed…our song—my song and your song, two favorites written and recorded as night stretches unending An

Esteem. Your loneliness has spread to your eyes,             It has now become a part of who you are. You can no longer keep contract of your own lies.             Everyone else but you can see that this has gone too far.                 Your expressions and body language have become bionic.             It’s almost like the lights are on but the room has been ransacked. What is ironic is that you try so hard to subtly avoid the topic.             I choose and use my words carefully because I know how you will react.                     There is only so much I can say or do; the rest is solely up to you.             Only you c

I stare at the white-washed wall, unmoving. A single tear escapes from my left eye and rushes off my cheek with dedicated intent. In this room that I call my own, my monsters are more real than ever. They leer and jeer from dark corners and sinister reflections, taunting me. With a sniffle and a shudder, I turn my head away from the white wall and towards my broken mirror. I scrutinize the dent made on the metal backing of the mirror and I remember. I remember the shrill crack and the shattering rain of fragile glass breaking upon hard wooden floor. I broke the demon, I ended its existence and yet I was so naive to think it was over. I sat id

Become the dance- Kick and sway To the rustles of the growing branch Become the ring and softly say "Am I a creature of my own clay?" We've always been here, beyond time before the days of yesteryear Born of our own mind Unbound by change, but only the force of fear