I feel like we all try
to fit ourselves inside of a box.
A simple, square, basic box.
A box where we fit,
try to fit,
or pretend to fit…
But anyway we look at it
it’s still a fucking box.
So are we supposed to stay
inside the box we wind up in?
Or do we work our hardest
to get out of it?
Category: My Poetry
Directionless
During the day,
I have a map.
A crisp, well designed,
detailed map
which I may drift from,
but soon come back to follow.
During the night
I have a compass.
A rusted, cracked,
loose screwed compass
which I try to follow,
but the magnetism is off.
So West becomes East,
and North becomes South...
And I'm left spinning
the full 360°...
Directionless
and lost
until morning.
Cleansed
After the storm clears
and there’s nothing left
but dew…
The dissipating clouds will
let the sunlight peak through.
A golden glow
will cast its’ way to
the ground…
Creating an amber filter
upon all that surrounds.
And as the raindrops
evaporate off the
window panes…
The day will carry on
with all that remains.
Steaming
Tonight I stood crying
silent tears in the shower,
my anger and sadness
mixed in with the water.
When I stepped out and dried
myself off in the mirror,
my eyes held emotions
that couldn't be clearer.
They held the hatred for him
for all he did upon me,
and the pain from grieving
for the girl I used to be.
Doormat
When you
locked me out
you didn’t
throw away
the key,
You hid it
underneath
what laid
right in front
of me.
Weeds
I wanted you
to uncover those
memories,
like weeds in a
flower bed.
I was hoping you’d
find the good ones…
But you found the
bad ones instead.
I’ll Stay
I’ll hold your hand
when your family’s not here,
to comfort your death during
this quarantine my dear.
I know you don’t understand
what this lock-down has done,
and it pains me to know
you aren’t the only one.
But one visitor a day
is all that’s allowed,
and sadly you’ll get none
for the fear that surrounds.
So lay down your head
and close those tired eyes,
I’ll stay here with you
until your final goodbye.
Inner War
My heart
and head were
at a war that
was anything
but civil…
Just a senseless
moral battlefield
with me
wandering lost
in the middle.
Four Scents
Patchouli,
sandalwood,
musk and
cigarette smoke.
Seemingly
simple scents…
That transport me
right back to you.
Easier with Ink
I want to
put it on paper
and write it
all out,
Because nothing
sounds right
when it comes
from my mouth.
AO Poetry 
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