This could be someone you know

Has anyone ever told you
what it feels like 
to be two parts of one whole? 
To not be sure 
of which half you’ll wake up as
in the morning? 
to feel your heart
constantly wedged in your throat
for fear of saying
what’s on the mind 
of the sad half of you? 

There are some days
I never touch down to reality
some days I feel the clouds
of my ancestors
begging me to be brave
and stand strong
but it’s so hard 
when you’re weak 
from wanting 
to wear the paths 
of your prayers
like circles 
around your fingers
because then there’d be proof
that you’d been searching
for the map all along 
and people might stop thinking 
that maybe 
your just listening 
to the beating 
of your own 
misunderstandings. 

I’ve spent so much time 
becoming acquainted 
with the hole in my pillow 
my head leaves 
when I just want to be left alone.
I’m so afraid 
that if I share the riverbeds
beneath my eyes ,
reveal all the joy 
the darkness
has stolen from me 
that someone 
will start seeing false cracks
in my smile
the way the moon 
saw my tongue 
and tried to fill it with it 
with visions of the fields
so I could run
away with my depression
and build a home for us 
beneath the weeping willows. 

I find it’s better 
if I stay home 
beneath the covers
because then 
I don’t have to explain 
to broken faces
why I can’t find the beauty 
anymore. 

I can’t wake up 
another morning 
with lead in my bones. 

I guess this is my cry for help

 
 
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This is not a pretty story

This is not a pretty story

 

This does not have a happy ending.

 

I know there are valleys

and there are mountains

this is the rhythm of life.

I know not every moment

will strike my heart

in wondrous awe

because in order to celebrate

there must be nighttime,

but what happens

when you are traveling

between both at the same time

when there is beauty above

and darkness below

 

..I cannot find myself

I do not know where I have gone

 

I cannot find myself

 

When I grow old

and I tell my children

tales of my youth

what shall I tell them

about my twenty fourth year?

Shall I tell them

that I spend three-fourths of it

working until my bones were dry

and the rest

lying in bed

wondering

if I will ever

be worth something.

 

Will I ever be worth something

or will I constantly fight

the inner clockworkings

of this battered heart?

 

I cannot find myself.

I do not know what shadow

all my happiness has fled behind

even when goodness

overwhelms my heart

like gold

I cannot find myself.

I do not know

where I have gone.