There’s a tiny man

Inside my stomach,

He keeps trying to climb it,

Over and

Over and

Over again,

But he loses his footing

And tumbles down,

Only to try once more

It is a blessing or a curse being a blank canvas?

There are so many things to create and believe in.

You could create anything. Anything at all. The reflective moon on the dark lake and the wind whistling in the mountain tops. Dancing pixies in the lush forest with dozens of incandescent flowers or dragons that soar higher than the eye can see. Beautiful love stories that make you believe in hope and second chances.

But there are oh so many ways to cause devastation.

You could draw desperation from old wounded souls and cause fire to rain down from the sky. You could draw painful endings with all lights snuffed out at the end. Fill minds with poison, greed and envy until all the joy has been chased away. Break hearts and pull heartstrings just for fun while leaving a wake of chaos behind you.

And the scariest thing is that you might not know you are doing it. You might not know you are creating a masterpiece or a work of despair until it’s over. And by then, it’s too late to turn back. You’re not a blank canvas anymore.

I miss you. I miss the way the corner of your lip quirks upward when you smile. I miss the way you hugged me when I cried. Heck, I even miss that stupid sweatshirt you always wore.

But none of this can fix what's going on between us. I have spent weeks poring over your photos on my phone, but that doesn't change the fact that my inbox remains empty. I have spent hours in my room, alone. I have cried until I ran out of tears and I just stared at the wall, feeling nothing. But that doesn't make you feel any closer.

I go through bouts of emotion. I hate you. I want nothing more than to burn your house down. I love you. I want nothing more than kiss you. I am better off without you. I am lost when you're not with me.

So yeah. I hate you. But I miss you, too.

like a small child God grew angry

with his blocks so he tantrumed

and spilled milk all over Earth

and even the birds who perched above it all

suffered even the trees couldn’t breathe

and there was no one to reprimand him

no one to say stop don’t no

but even if there had been someone

standing over him pointing fingers

it is likely he wouldn’t have listened anyway

I wasn’t trying

To hit the nail on the head

With my too forceful words

I have killed it stone dead.

I wasn’t aiming

To be exactly spot on

With my clumsy remarks,

Now my meaning has gone

I wasn’t hoping

To have opened your eyes

With my made up response

And my careless half-lies

I wasn’t thinking

To have summed up your world

With my half-baked ideas

As my emotions unfurled.

I was just typing words

From my head to the page

Making space in my mind

For the words I can’t find.

So please stop reading them!

I can’t stop writing about birds

and I am sorry, but if you can look

at beauty without fear of gasping

then maybe it’s not beauty after all.

It is okay to admit that Darwin’s logic

might have been flawed: the fittest survive

but do not live. Where is their morning

song? Their hum? I want to congratulate

birds' flights, their landings, the way

they confetti in cartoons—all celebrations

deserving of their own light.

And I know the world does not need

another bird poem, but I have seen

how things are breaking.

And I know a bird poem won’t fix

anything, but sometimes

we must take a moment to honor

bones born to be hollow,

unlike ours, which have just been

scooped out over time.

The  garbage man comes by today

Making little noise

He'll take out the junk of life

Your heart has broken toys

I really love the garbage truck

The huge machine of steel

Two strong arms to lift the stuff

The Man sits at the wheel

There comes a time to throw it out

The garbage in our can

Shit that doesn't need to stay

Removed by Garbage Man

You will feel much better

As the big truck rolls away

He takes a hopeless letter

The stuff that cannot stay

It sounds to me the trash can's full

It cannot take more strife

His two arms strong as a bull

Take your trash and give you life

Give yourself a chance to live

No garbage up your nose

Happy you, your prose to give!

Now you can smell the rose.

Being youngest was my fate

 I always felt I had to wait

To go to school or hook my own bait

I had to wait to ride a bicycle 

My siblings did, I had a tricycle 

I had to wait for hand-me-downs

Not often did I go to town

A sense of inferiority

Seemed to have a hold on me

Even when the school did start

I didn't realize I was smart

That I was leading in the class

I thought that I was always last.

It took some time to understand

It's not the age that makes the man

Look at the thing, emotional age

The guts it takes to stand on stage

Some throw fits roll on the floor

While they're frickin' forty four

Spiritual age a child is ten

You love to see that child again

Fear of death at ninety two

No fear of death at twenty-two 

The young man took a look

Found answers in a Book 

Since I've aged accused to be

A milf of plastic surgery

I walk fast and laugh a lot

I'm not grey, my hair I got

I'm old on charts but I don't see

That age will ever bother me

Completely overwhelmed

Drowning in sound

Every conversation

Stands out too loud

Voices fighting voices

Can't quiet the crowd

Heart beats too fast

And I keep my head down

Try to make my way

To the check out

The people in line

All wear a frown

Their faces are mocking

I want to shutdown

The girl says next

And it's my turn now

My palms are so sweaty

As time melts around

The counter and things

In the background

She's got my bags

But I can't find ground

Have a nice day

And I'm breaking down

Bolt for the door

And I'm finally out

The air hits my lungs

And I'm finally found