Your poem

Who is to tell you whether
your poem
is worth writing down
or not?
Would you let them
tell you
if your life
is worth living
or not?

Your poem

Who is to tell you whether
your poem
is worth writing down
or not?
Would you let them
tell you
if your life
is worth living
or not?

Gone by

Why am I still
holding your hand?
Maybe because
you still seem
a little lost to me,
a little vulnerable.
Wide eyed,
perhaps a bit alone.
I see you hiding
behind the curtain
and I make sure
no one finds you.
I leave you
breathing unsteadily
in your curtain cocoon.
Your breaths caught
in the words
you are rehearsing to say.
I know your struggle,
don't worry.
I know your rage, 
don't explain.
I'll protect you
for as long as
it feels right  to me.
Though they say 

I am a fool.

A coward with a

weak mind.
For holding on to you.

A child I should just 

leave behind.

Gone by

Why am I still
holding your hand?
Maybe because
you still seem
a little lost to me,
a little vulnerable.
Wide eyed,
perhaps a bit alone.
I see you hiding
behind the curtain
and I make sure
no one finds you.
I leave you
breathing unsteadily
in your curtain cocoon.
Your breaths caught
in the words
you are rehearsing to say.
I know your struggle,
don't worry.
I know your rage, 
don't explain.
I'll protect you
for as long as
it feels right  to me.
Though they say 

I am a fool.

A coward with a

weak mind.
For holding on to you.

A child I should just 

leave behind.

The Silent Poem

Why won't you speak to me?
The silences stretch tense.
Taut strings slicing air
into strips of white noise.
The nights dripping heavy.
The mornings are cloud white.
Loneliness has become loneliness.
No more time spent alone.
It resembles now
the endless dinners being eaten
in front of countless TV screens.
Every day. Mundane. Flickering.
Even writing about not writing
feels better for now. 

The Silent Poem

Why won't you speak to me?
The silences stretch tense.
Taut strings slicing air
into strips of white noise.
The nights dripping heavy.
The mornings are cloud white.
Loneliness has become loneliness.
No more time spent alone.
It resembles now
the endless dinners being eaten
in front of countless TV screens.
Every day. Mundane. Flickering.
Even writing about not writing
feels better for now.