"My Michael,"

At the bottom of the letter was a name written in a hand writing that I recognized. I reread it multiple times, my mind tracing back to the one I called mine. Are we really that alike? The pain cleared my mind a little. I had to sit there and stare at the love letters kept secret and hidden away.
I never doubted her love for him. Maybe when they fought. Maybe when he did the unspoken, forever tearing a hole in all our hearts. But now I understand a little bit more.

Michael may be miles away, unseen, but he is forever buried in my mother's heart. Where he belongs. Where he should always be.

"Because you'll always be my Michael...." 

Semicolon

Amy Bleuel, the founder of Project Semicolon passed away of suicide on March 23rd, 2017. A semicolon in the mental health community is known as a symbol of hope - a semicolon is used when an author could've ended their sentence, but chose not to.

Today my heart continues to ache after hearing the devastating news of Amy Bleuel's passing. Amy gave so many people hope and encouraged those struggling to keep fighting. I'm so sorry we couldn't save you, Amy. I'm so sorry that you couldn't carry on your sentence. 

Rest in peace, Amy.

August 3, 1985 ~ March 23, 2017

Out

     The words are trapped in my mouth. The one person I thought I could depend on does not have enough patience for me. She thought that I wouldn't talk with her. I felt trapped. But how can I tell her when the words die in my throat before they even reach my mouth. I have to clench my teeth to force them out.

      I can't get my words out. I cried. I can't word them. 

      Yes you can!

      No, I can't.

     Sometimes I need to sit there for a moment to think of an easy way out. To come up with words that won't make my throat constrict. 

     She doesn't believe me. She yells at me. Demanding me to talk. I try, I really do. But I'm stuck. My words are trapped in my head, forming and breaking, trying to figure themselves out and making sentences but having to tear them down because they won't come out. They won't come out. 

Sorrow

Sorrow

Sorrow creeps

Along heavy feet

It stands watching

Towards cities and towns

Through cold shadows

And then walks on

(In the manner of Carl Sandburg's Frog)

Evergreen

Sin and retribution
It would be my last punishment

I am

a person who

remembered

the comfort of the trees,

remembered the

warm, dusty leaves,

and the cold, enormous sky. Strange how

sleepless hours

made no sound.

I Am A Writer

I am not an artist, I am a writer.

I pour my emotions into blank pages.

I piece my work together like a puzzle,

But I eventually pick it clean.

The clutter, the flaws.

Four pages break down to two.

No more clutter, but plenty of flaws.

And yet, those flaws resemble my style.

Everyone has their own style;

Van Gogh, Shakespeare.

I am writing for only one audience:

Me.

Writing is hard.

Don't believe anyone who tells you that it's not.

Painting must be hard, too.

Creating a scene on a canvas,

Or even a slab of glass.

It's art. Of course it's hard.

It could be a leather bound book,

Or a poster.

Either way, an artist's emotions hide in their work.

Are you an artist?