Struggle (Page 8)

A small, pink flower grows up between the unfinished, wood planks of a home deck.

I flay myself
on the altar of art,
cut down to the bone,
break every last part.

I write it on paper,
type it into my phone,
share it with the world,
and feel utterly alone.

[continue]. . .

The side profile of a woman, covered in gold paint makeup, she has her index finger held up in front of her pursed lips, displaying the universally recognized sign, 'Hush!'

Don’t tell anyone.
They can’t know about you,
that you’re different,
weird, unacceptable, unforgivable.

Don’t tell anyone.
They might think it was my fault.

[continue]. . .

The poem "We have lots of time" consists of the title, a byline, and a single period as the poem itself.

I was at the hospital with my dad. He was there to be tested for an issue related to what took my mom’s life a few years before. While waiting, an idea for a poem hit me.

[continue]. . .

A close-up of a sinister-looking man's face, with cracked skin and purple-blue eyes.

Fear makes people see things,
exactly how they thought.
Through biased eyes, accepting lies,
their heart should have fought.

Fear makes people see things.

[continue]. . .