**** it.
poetry isn't for you,
it isn't for anyone.
why show the world
your wounds?
keep it all wrapped up
under a knit blanket, i suppose.
fight your demons alone;
a war in your own mind.
don't let anyone see
the scars, not on your wrist,
but in your thoughts.
stay silent, stay quiet.
maybe you'll get through it.
hide it inside, hidden
by fake smiles and fake friends.
move on with your music
and a whole new reality.
the world is a dangerous place;
people don't understand
and people don't know.
don't show your marks,
pull down your sleeves.

no,
poetry isn't for anyone.

I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias
And slid my fingers among topics and titles
Looking for you.
  
And the answer comes slow.
There seems to be no answer.
  
I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it.
  
Or-the iceman with his iron tongs gripping a clear cube in summer sunlight-maybe he will know.

I rarely get on Facebook anymore. But when I do, I'll change my profile picture or banner-- maybe post a witty status update, maybe not witty, just something to let people know I'm alive.

It's like repositioning the arms on a stationary mannequin to depict a different scene. Except lately I just don't care anymore. It's just that-- a mannequin. An object, an image, a lifeless entity with which I used to feel real-- a dusty mirror.

I see that the line between the idea of a person and the reality is being blurred and crossing over into something all-together different. It's as if people are starting to wake up and realize the objectivity of their reality. But that brings into question the basis for which we define reality.

We have become a, “Look but don't touch” society in which we click a button to show our appreciation as opposed to genuinely reciprocating human emotion and energy. It is extremely isolating and dangerous.

Packed subways and sidewalks have fallen eerily silent with faces illuminated by their cellphones. Most everyone wants to be heard, appreciated and recognized and social media has provided an outlet for that.

But there comes a point at which your platform becomes your prison and your voice your warden-- and everything you say is modified to be pleasing to the ear and 'likeable'.

But I like dislikes. And if you're not ******* anyone off-- you're probably not doing anything important, and if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.

My new favorite poet is a fifteen year old girl.
Margaret is clever it's astounding.
I knew youth was coming like this but usually when I saw it up close they we're just these maniacal computer wiz kids but this girl seems to party.
I hope she meets Alex Turner someday.
I hope she meets Andrew VanWyngarden too.
I don't know why, but I guess it's because they're dashing and she deserves the best.
I hope the world don't tangle her up too much and don't sit on her like a fat bully.
I know she can dodge it though and we need her and her vision of peace like a checkpoint.
My favorite new poet is a fifteen year old girl.
Shine on Margaret, light up the world.

I fell for
His freckles.
His corny smile.
His monkey ears.
Which magnified his tender heart.
He was kind, oh, so very kind.
His heart was an open book.
It told no secrets to share or
Regrets to ponder on.

Everybody loved him.

And he loved everyone and everything.
except for me…

But I loved him anyways.