I wanted to write a poem about you
But all I could think of was your smile.
And all the romantic notions in my head
Probably make you out to be better than you are.

It's early morning
I'm sitting here
My pen in hand
Eager to get something on this page
But the words won't come
And it's no fun
Without you here with me

I'm awfully mediocre, darling
I have nothing original to offer
All I can do is hold this pen
And hope that words will come

Or maybe I can search for words or quotes
And tangle them together
In hopes of making some sort of art
To explain how I am feeling

Because I'm awfully mediocre
And I have nothing original to offer
I so desperately want to write to you
And tell you how I'm feeling
But my tongue is tied
My brain is in knots
And I'm growing rather weary

Yes, I can take words from others
And send them to you
But none of them can ever compare
To the loneliness I feel
And the sorrow I bare
Living my life without you

i went to the park at dusk with a notepad
and tried to write poetry
i felt everything
like the changing colours in the sky
the people running by
and the shadows under the trees that slowly spread out to tint the whole world
but i couldn't get anything good down.

I am content being in my closet-bed, safe and alone. I am ok with my window open and the night air. I can switch the switch of pursuit, fondness and a candid smile. I have my own sphere of existence and I am happy to have it. I cannot always start running on a new chapter of my life but I am fully able to continue to ream in the past with new vigor and statistical desperation. I am one of a few million-million and it is still unclear what creates the legend of capital uniqueness. I love my father and mother and always my sister. I want better for everyone and myself. I want to love on them all that I can.  Marriage no, children no, family is what I have as conflicting and contradicting as it may be. Thing fall apart. I love the ugly moments of my ceiling.

I am not a new story waiting to happen. I am not a ravid political face or frenzy. I am not a desperate grunt who got his just-comings. I am not the type to be escorted in any way by the crumpled void of fallacius fame and humble-beginning-fortune. I am the desperate coat bearer of the northeast bronx. I have the mind of a child. I have the graces of rat. I have the public anticipation of a broken man apart from his chariot-era. When sitting I grow anxious and hungry and mis-mannered and poor and terrified. I throw away any hour to the madness of deep seething and wallowed whispers of loathing per-the manuscript writings of two years ago. I cannot help myself like others can. I cannot say what haunts me the way they can. It's the deaf ears and I have some too. I was born this way and I who I am. They are permissible and I am another anachronism. I am tempted to start over somewhere completely unknown and away. I just want to break free from the cycle my age and be with my age. I want to chase my girl around the city and stop at another house and have another long conversation about the same daily occurrence of you evenings. Then move on when you have moved on and see straight into another tomorrow like I was unable to until now. To write myself out of another horrific night, alone. Defeated by my own revelations of my own determined normalcy and struggle for authentic dialog. Near the line of conviction that I should never say another word because the shy me now will be appalled by the shy me years later. That I will surely be an embarrassment in my own if I ever stepped on a stage. That I have nothing, and will never have anything, worthy or useful to the world around me. That I am completely doomed to die forgotten and unoriginal.

We danced with lilacs
and told our stories to the demons that hid in our ratted hair.
Our pillows were aviaries for the broken corvine hearts
Our tears turned to black ink to write them love songs for them to sing in their mourning.
We wrote our secrets in the bark of trees
and sang our sweet nothings to our monarch butterflies,
but flew away and never came back again.

I walk the empty road of hurried days
the dark holds opportunities that the light burns through.
Nerves have been narcissistic
in that self-loathing battering
that I promised you I wouldn't commit to again.

is it different if you're a witness?

Hiding isn't part of the agenda,
if you could call irrationality an agenda.

here's to touching upon a few points in which I don't show all sides.

I'm nervous to talk to the people who make me happy
and I'm jaded to their presence,
because I'm a modern-day gatsby
with a touch of bukowski (or maybe a slam)
and all I want is for  this romantic inside of me to give up on the struggle
and give in.

I want to let her form allude me because it's not important,
she just wants recognition for the fact that she has an education
and knows how to use it.
I'm just going to let my words smash onto the page, maybe edit
before a show, maybe not.
Probably go drink a beer on the local trail and stare at the back
yards of the wealthy and sharpie in an eye ball on the cement
brick on which I set my empty bottle for company, because
flowers don't get far in foam.

Nostalgia here we are again,
this time there's no search for meaning,
I know you completely and ever since we've met
you've refused to let go (somewhat of a curse, yet I love you).

If I want to let myself be free, then I have to let go of others judgement.
If maybe for a second I didn't think of what others thought about me
and I didn't think about them to occupy the empty space, then I would
truly return to the person I was before my self-esteem plummeted beneath
all that I knew to be right and wrong. Before it hurt to write my feelings
because of the fear that what I wrote wouldn't be good enough, or long enough,
no matter how many compliments came shooting through me.

"I forgot, you're bad at accepting compliments."

I don't want that to be true, I don't want to beat myself up
over the fact that someone else has great beauty simply
because I am blind of my own.

Self-love, here I come,
it'll help me live life without tangles.

i love to write
i love to write novels
and let my
fingers
type
letter, words,
sentences,
pages-- a whole book
i love to write
poetry and
fiction

Watching him write on the blackboard
More green than black
I was struck by the deep blue of his shirt
And how crisp the lines were
Folded and ironed
More effort than I care to put into a shirt

And even though I was shivering
In the dark, hopeless blue of
My bulky winter jacket
Sitting in that empty chair
I slid out of the room in my mind
Recalling summer

The windows, now with canvas
Blinds half lowered
Would, instead of frost and condensation
Allow thick, all-encompassing heat
To slither into the room
Our shirts sticking to us

Sweat stains would mark up our
Clothes, like chalk on the blackboard
And our legs would
Stick to our plastic chairs as we
Stood at the end of class, reinvigorated
Voices raised in shared triumph of the overcome

Backpacks would be thrown over our
Shoulders wet and tan and flush with
Heat of the summer season, synonymous with
Hope. Our shorts and bright shirts made the
Room a deafening testament to our
Readiness

For the day.