You who harbor resentment,
Do you not know?
Your heart is a breeding ground
For that nasty crow.

She has nested on my shoulder
Pecking at my temples
Cawing in my ear
Making my head tremble.

Like a raven on a bust,
Only ever saying “nevermore.”
Reminding me who was preferred
In this ever-becoming lore.

I should have been chosen.
That person is a fool-
A pessimistic and narcissistic,
Low down idiot tool.

You who harbor resentment,
I know what eats you,
For I harbor it daily,
Against many, not a few.

I wrote this piece in the dead of winter and really debated sharing it. I hope you understand the density of it.

---

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust suffocates the green.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those that absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never rushed.

A bird rests on a branch,
Out of place in this season.
It flies away, wings flapping-
Able to escape.

My brother and I share handwriting.
An unfortunate hand-me-down.
Our father could have taught us fighting,
But instead gave us sloppy lines to decipher.

A gifted mind ignores fashion.
Imagery is only secondary.
They are instead for passion,
You will find mine,
In the hand-me-down handwriting.

Minister of visitation,
of those in desperation.
Always listening.
Ears and soul on fire.

He spends days in the hospital,
Completely healthy and able.
Someday he will enter,
But never leave again.

Will anyone visit him?
Or have they all moved on?

The bags under my eyes
Are heavier than the bags
In my left arm as it cries,
Begging, for relief.

It searches for what is not.
There is no relief,
For my arm or for the clot.
This clot making it’s way to my heart.

I stand on that bus,
Destination- nowhere.
Clenching the steel truss,
Begging for relief.

Returning to the simpleton,
Unsuccessful and unequipped.
“I told you so” to be common.
The bus goes further down it’s vein.

The boy who left town,
Now to return.
Empty handed, broken down.
With a sore arm, and a sore heart.

The Willow tree sings a song,
As it whips and slashes through wind.
It sounds as if it’s fighting, arguing,
The wind tears away branches,
Yet calls the Willow it’s friend.

A battle of whits and strength.
The branches know where to bend.
They take each blow with Grace.
They need neither your help, of mine.
For themselves, they can fend.

When we buried her on that strange hill,
They said, “Heaven gained an angel.”
I couldn’t help but question,
This comedic, yet pure accession.

I don’t believe people gain wings.
Or that they suddenly float, playing strings.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe in afterlife.
One of peace, one without strife.

But to say that we are strung up from heaven,
Perched like birds outside a seven-eleven,
Seems like a cheap representation,
Of our true, afterlife, manifestation.

A dorm room the size of an SUV fits 3 students.
Unbathed, pre-diabetic, and gaining weight.
Learning new contents.
Falling in line.

Moldy wooden houses placed neatly in a line.
Men in navy blue suits leave them.
Precisely, quarter to nine.
The American Dream.

An artist sits at their desk, in a meaningless office.
They write poetry instead of working.
Wondering why they chose this.
An outcast.