I’ve got a friend who has
Words like a drum,
Words like a drum,
Words like a drum.

You’ll feel it pass through you
With a heart-beating thrum,
Raindrops’ pitter patter echo
All she has done.

I’ve got a friend who has
Words that come down,
Heavy like leaden-footed
Giants abound.

She’ll take your breath away
And you’ll feel it in your bones,
It shakes down the mountains
Wherever she goes.

I’ve got a friend whose words
Land like a punch.
Staccato but it always hurts
Far too much.

She fights every battle
Like it’ll make her enough
For words filled with love
While hers are cold to the touch.

hell, i'm doing so well
getting sleep
eating vegetables
running on the treadmill
finishing my homework
staying off my phone

so why do i feel kind of numb?
why do i dream of nothing and
why does this food have no taste and
why can't i catch my breath and
why haven't i talked to my friends in days and
why do i want someone to punch me

i feel so sick
energy drinks every morning
throwing up every night
looking at my figure in the mirror
blisters on my hands
words caught in my throat

The wall is my punching bag
and your face is my inspiration.
Even when my knuckles sag,
there is no hesitation.

I have bruises on my fingers
but it is not the wall's fault.
It is the surge of my anger's
and they make my fists stronger.

The poison you poured in me
is overflowing the bottle.
Every punch the wall meets
is every sip of my struggle.

The pain is sinking in
and it feels worse than the bruises.
It's buried deeper within
so I dig but it refuses.

The wall is nothing
to what festers inside.
My punches do nothing
and there is nowhere to hide.

The disease is within me
and it is thriving in my mind.
The only way out is nowhere in sight.
I looked to my fists to set myself free
but my fists have no eyes
so I cannot see.

Now, my arms deserve to rest.
I'll even bid them a good night
because today won't be the worst
and I'll need them another time.

there was this one time
when some boy
looked at his friend
and said,

"you fight like a girl."

that same boy
called me a ****
and slapped my ***
when I walked by.

that same boy
got hit so hard,
his face smashed
against a locker in a
high school hallway.

that same boy
broke his nose and
chipped two teeth.

I looked down at him
and said,

"I fight like a girl too,
and I just ****** you up."

"I wish I could fight."
"You can."
"How? I don't know how
to punch or move."
"You fight with words.
It's called kung fu typing."
"Kung fu typing?
Did you just make that up?
Doesn't sound very cool."
"It's not supposed to be.
But if you master it,
you'll never need to worry
about not knowing
how to punch or move."

You confuse karate with love.
You punch, kick, and block.
You master the form,
Practice and practice.
You remember the creed.
Karate is not love.
You don’t kickstart the heart,
You can’t block love out,
Or punch it into submission.

I confuse love with poetry.
I read, write, and dream.
I master the edict of the pen,
Recite and recite.
I remember the sonnets.
Poetry is not love.
You don’t stanza the heart,
You can’t make a metaphor out of love,
Or personify it into breathing.

When will we learn?
When will you stop kicking Cupid?
When will I stop serenading him?
When will we stop this silly interpretation of love?

I don’t know,
But I’ll stop if you stop too.