my uncle says that all poetry is the same.
he's right, of course.
forty-four years old,
unmarried, tired,
working on an oil rig in Mississippi.
he's got wisdom i can't even imagine.
it's all the same.

no matter how hard i try,
no matter if i change Your name,
no matter if You actually read this,
it's all the same.

my uncle says that all poets are the same.
i believe him, of course.
eighteen years old,
just graduated, tired,
full of one sided, unrequited love for the whole world.
i've got naivety you can't even imagine.
we're all the same.

but i promise you,

cross my heart and hope to die,
no matter if it never changes,
no matter how many times i write this stupid poem,
every time i do,

it hurts just the same.

I do not write to spare anyone else's feelings,
but to save my own
It is the only time when I can be as honest as I please,
when I can speak what's on my mind in more eloquent ways than my stumbling and stuttering sentences

I have not the gift of the musical language the way Ravel does,
nor that of Tesla and the natural sciences
I cannot explain away why in fact the limit does not exist nor Pythagorus' innate ramblings,

but I can understand why Poe
was oh-so-miserable
and accept his love for beautiful dead women

I share Whitman's love of birds and their tales of woe for long lost lovers

Dickinson - hides herself -
the way I do - in her writings
and the ****** fly interposed itself in my light as well

Emerson and Melville tell tales of self reliance,
with Major Molineaux and Bartleby taking life by its reigns
but even Dante seeks Virgil's aid in finding hell

I am by far no writer of substantial merit
and have much to learn,
but that is exactly why I love what I do

I write to understand that which happens to and around me

I write in often vain efforts to find solid ground beneath my tired feet,
But most of the time,
I end up with paper scattered around me, full of words that I have yet to know

I write when I don't know what else to do,
even when I don't mean to find myself locked away,
scribbling meaningless words onto paper

I write to learn more of the errors of my ways,
maybe if I can gather my thoughts into one coherent phrase,
then I can finally accept my wrongdoings,
then I can grow

There is a sad realization that knocks me down with every ripple of its wave each and every time that my words cause grief or hurt

It is never my intention,
but even that is hard to believe

To say that i am sorry for them is pointless
I am not and never will be

How could I betray myself in such a way?

I write to escape
to understand
to create
to learn
to stand
on my own two feet
I write to be honest
among other things,
but most of all,

I write because it is all I know

As I sit here in my room, I start to wonder if you feel the same way I do.
If it pains you to see me with someone else, like it does to me.
If you think about me 24/7 like I think about you.
If it warms your heart to see me happy like it does to me.
If when you see me, it makes your day like you make mine.
If you feel those huge butterflies inside like I do.
If no matter how hard you try, you can't get me out of your head like I can't.
If I send your heart racing with one look, like you do to me.
If you can get an impossible high when I'm around, like I can with you.
If you can read me like an open book like I can with you.
If you spend an incredible amount of time constantly checking to see if I call or text you the way I do.
If you want to be the only one to make me smile and laugh like I do.
If maybe you feel like the whole world can hear your heart beating loudly like I do.
If you can tell what I'm feeling, like how I wish I could with you.
If you just want to hold me and never let go, like I wish I could.
If you would wish to be with me all the time like I wish you would.
If you love me like I love you.

I hate when I ask for the time and someone will say "oh it's 5:30", when in reality it's 5:26

I know that it's four measly minutes and it may not seem like a lot, but why cut corners?
I like knowing the exact time because I know how long my favorite song is and if I can listen to it in the span of three minutes and twelve seconds while walking to class, I will.

My mind simply cannot deal with the fact that someone just lied to me about the time.
Time! Of all things.
Time is precious and we all want more of it.

If we had all the time in the world, we wouldn't worry about a **** thing.
I wouldn't worry about the fact that it takes me 13 minutes to straighten my hair.
I wouldn't worry about the time that it takes me to get to school, which is 23 minutes on a good day.
I wouldn't worry about being late to church because it takes me 32 minutes to get there.
I wouldn't worry about the fact that I got to the hospital 4 minutes too late and now, now there is no time left.

I like my time, you see?
If I were given one last chance to spend from 5:26 to 5:30 to spend with the person I loved most in the world, and then you said "its 5:30" , then I'd know I was too late.
It's not just about fast forwarding my time, it's about me knowing whether I have enough time to fix my make up one last time or listen to a song or just hug them for 7 more seconds.

It's about being able to say I love you, one last time.

I love the way your hair falls over your eyes and glasses. It gives off a sense of mystery that baffles me.
I love how tall you are. It makes me feel small and secure next to you.
I love the way you play your saxophone. It gives me chills whenever I hear it and they last for hours.
I love how you are with your family. It makes me think of a possible future together.
I love the way you talk, so soft, yet demanding attention. It reminds me of a beautiful flower that enthralls whoever sees it.
I love the way you smile and how rarely I get to see it in its true form. It makes me want to work all the more harder to draw it out.
I love how silly you act sometimes. It reminds me of the child you still possess.
I love the way you are always so sweet. It makes me think of how even my favorite candy couldn't beat you with it's sugar.
I love how you love me. It makes me want to be a better person.

Why am I like this?
What have I turned into?
You're all I think about
and I feel like a lost puppy most of the time,
like I'm waiting for you
to seek me out and find me.

Why?!

What is it about you that has reduced me
to repeated I love you's
and I miss you's
and I can't wait to see you's?
I have never been so honest about my feelings
to anyone before
and this terrifies me.

The power that you have over me,
that I have given you so willingly,
terrifies me.
And now,
you're all I write about.

I like to write about what I see
happening around me,
the people and things
that matter the most to me,
and my thoughts
so thank you!
You have made writing
so much easier for me
because you have blinded me
to everything happening around me,
you are what's happening around me.
You are all that matters to me
and I cannot stop thinking about you!

I cannot stop thinking about you!
I cannot stop thinking about you!
I cannot stop thinking about you!
I am starting to think that
there is something wrong with me.
This cannot be normal.
This is not healthy,
I should know;
I was always a sick child.
And this is so strange to me
because the only way
to make me feel better
is to think about you.

On the days that I spend
too much time alone in my room,
where I hate the world,
when I want nothing more
than to just go home,
where I spend hours in bed,
clutching a pillow and wishing it was you,
on the days that I miss you,
I think of you.
I think of you.
I think of you...

I don't know why I'm like this.
I don't know what I've turned into,
but when I think of you,
*it all makes sense.

We all have demons
Some we have to make peace with
I make friends of mine

It was a letter.
A middle school type letter where you had someone give it to me.
You were saying that you loved me.  
Or that you could've loved me had you not been so busy with all that was going on in your life.
How terribly tragic.

Imagine me.
Desperately pining after you,  yearning to grab your attention every time I saw you only to find that you were too busy for me.
You once said you would always have time for me
You once said you loved me.
What happened to that?

I kept that letter.
Kept it with all of the poems and notes I'd ever written for you.
They're nothing but old pictures now.
Frayed at the edges, but still full of precious memories that hurt to look at.

You say that people can never really love someone.
That we are not capable of giving away all of our attention and affection to someone else.
I say that you are a liar

I have loved you since the day I laid eyes on you.
And trust me, I love everything about you.
The way you look so confused when you don't know what I'm talking about.
The way you song, even though you clearly can't.
I love that you remember the tiny little things that I don't.
I'm sorry for that.

I would gladly give you all of my own being if you asked for it.
Or even if you didn't!
I pray that I know you as well as I think I do.
You are more than a friend to me.

When it rains, and there's lightning, I remember to not go outside because you said I would be electrocuted.
Even my memory is dedicated to you.

You are written in the bruises on my skin.
I have given you my skin
The worst of my insecurities.
What more can you ask for?

Or rather, don't ask.

I will wrap up my fears, loves, dreams, insecurities, and longings in a simple brown box and give them to you.
They were yours anyway.

So if that isn't love, if giving yourself completely to another person, isn't what you think love is, then I have nothing else to give.

But if I did, if I did, trust when I say that they are yours.

There is a lone cloud in the sky.

The car that just passed
The person inside is waiting to crash.
There are two couples
One can't wait to break up
The other just *****.
There is a lone cloud in the sky and it covers only me.

I am the dark spot on your Sun
But you still say that you like me anyway.
I can't imagine why.

You say that to every happy ending needs a sad beginning
And I am your sad beginning

Every musician plays a bad note before playing perfection
But unless I am that perfection
I will not be played again

You have ruined me.

I wasn't always the lone cloud in the sky.
I was the ray of sunshine
Bursting through your clouds of misery.

You have your happy ending now.
You have played your perfection.
Your sky is blue.

But you keep me in it
The lone cloud
For when you need to stand beneath it with me.

*Most of the time it covers only me.

Like trying to swim in a desert, I have been trying to forget you.
Obviously, it's not working.

When I was growing up my mother would say " It's okay not to try if you know you're fail miserably, but you can try it just for the experience."

So I did.

I spent hours reading books, familiarizing myself with characters that seemed a lot like you; impulsive, stubborn, witty, and sarcastic.
Can you see the similarity?

After deducing that books weren't the answer, I turned to the internet.
Sadly, this was a bust as well.
Every cat picture I saw reminded me of Star, the cat who ran away.
Yes, this was your cat.
I can't imagine why she would leave.
Honestly, CAN YOU READ THE SARCASM?

My last attempt at forgetting you was filling my head with meaningless facts.
Did you know that penguins have knees?
Yeah. You told me that.

Anyways, I decided that there was just no staying away from you.
My mind was like a private detective, subconciously tracking you down, searching for any type of clue that would lead me to you.
Don't ask me why I end up next to you everyday.
I honestly don't know.

But sometimes, I can see my train of thought leading me to you and it never crosses my mind to come to a screeching halt.

Maybe it's because I want to crash into you.
Or maybe it's because I want you to meet me halfway.

To say that I don't think of you is a lie.
To think that I don't miss you is blasphemous
And missing you is a sin that I have yet to confess
And I'm not Catholic so I don't know how that works.

But here's my problem:  I don't want to confess if it's not to you.
It becomes meaningless once it reaches the ears of someone else.

They tell me that loving God means that He's the only one.
I can place No-One else above him.

Is it bad to say that He was cast down the second I met you?
I don't think so.
I think He should be understanding of my longing.
Why would He create you if not to present you to me?

I'd like to think that that's the case; you are meant for me.

Sadly I don't think that The Lord and all His mysterious ways work like that.
I don't think He likes your place above him because He is a jealous God.

And now I can't have you.

He has struck us like the Tower of Babel and it's hard for me to understand you.
This is why I must confess, why I must reveal my sins to you, for who can forgive me except for the one who was wronged?

*God won't and I won't either.

These people.
The ones standing around complaning of which song they heard first.
These people.
Who never would think that they would make it out of this miserable place.
These people.
My people.

I don't associate myself with them, for I have dreams of my own, but these people.
Most have nothing to live for.
They have dreams as well,
but don't have any intention of living for them,
of striving for them.

My people often make me sick.

I've not written in a long time.
I'm sitting in a room surrounded by people who don't care about what goes on around them.
I sit among them wondering what the Hell I'm even writing about.
Nonsense, nonsensical words that mean nothing but the life that I give them.
What
          do
               they
                       all
                           mean?
You write almost everyday.
I know because you tell me.
You sit in rooms surrounded by people who have such deep, longing, arduous passion for what goes on around them.
You stand among them.
Stand because you greatly outshine them all.
Play, play, playing notes that breathe to life when you tell them to.
You learned to control them.
You
       give
               them
                         meaning.
                                           Like
                                    you
                    ­          do
                      me.

you've left him a sad mess
a sorrowful, flightless bird
his wings
beat

and beat
and beat
and beat
and beat

against the floor where he lay
and nothing

did you enjoy it?
watching him writhe about
while you sat upon the pedestal
he placed you on

we all watched him fall
just like the others
only this time
I thought you had changed

you walked off the pedestal
gracefully
to the cage
you'd left him in

and touched him
gently
held him up
high above you

(even the stars
were jealous)

only to wring his neck
while we watched

and yet
he remains

wings broken
beyond belief

sometimes
he thinks he can sing instead

*but you've taken that too
haven't you?

I hate that it took me 17 years to find you.
I hate that you were 14 when I did.
I hate that I'll have to leave you in a months time.
I hate all the stupid things we never did.

I hate all the love poems I've written so far.
I hate that they're not about you.
I hate that I can go an entire day and not see your face.
I hate that that's not true.

I hate lying awake at night.
I hate being alone.
I hate being without you.
I hate all the time I spend just staring at my phone.

I hate looking at you and seeing sadness in your eyes.
I hate your great taste in TV shows.
I hate that Firefly made me cry.
I hate that some people can't see how great you are, oh the good Lord(e) knows.

I hate it when you're not with me.
I hate not having you near.
I hate that your laces are almost always untied.
I hate that some days I'll have to settle for staring at a bracelet because you're not here.

I hate it when things rhyme.
I hate that your Snow melted away.
I hate all the pain it caused you.
I hate that this is all too cliche.

I hate how lonely my hands feel when you don't hold them.
I hate it when you frown.
But I know one thing for sure,
this I've got down;

I don't hate how much I love you,
the way you've turned my world upside down.

Summer is almost over.
I have one week to get my homework done and get my sleeping schedule back in order.
That's gonna be a little hard.
My hair has grown, refusing to let your fingers be brushed out of its tangles.
Buts it's purple now so at least I won't be able to see you in it.
All summer long I thought of you and plenty of other people that I'd left behind.
I thought about why you didn't hate me.
I thought maybe you were insane.
I thought maybe I was insane.
Either way, school starts in a week and I have yet to prepare myself to see you everyday.
I'd grown used to your absence.

I've been sitting here staring at the clock on the wall and I've been laying here praying, praying she won't call...
I've been replaced haven't I? You don't have to say it out loud, I can see it. No, that's the wrong thing to say. I don't see it. I don't see you at all anymore.

Darling, you are the only exception.
I will love you unconditionally, no matter what.

You love blow and I love puff...
As much as I don't want to admit it, we aren't that much alike.
Nothing can change that.

You make me crazier...
I swear that my head used to spin like a tilt-a-whirl when I was around you.

I'll keep you my ***** little secret.
Is that all that I was to you?

Cause I'm falling for you now...
Please don't lie to me. I don't know if its worse than the actual honest words that you speak to me.

Liar, liar. Don't cry on my shoulder.
Could better words have been used to describe you?

My love's like a star, yeah, you can't always see it, but you know that I'm always there.
Yes, you were there. Always ignoring me. What a ******* lie.

Never mind, I'll find someone like you.
Impossible.

Did you forget that I was even alive?
Please don't?

I just can't stop loving you.
Unfortunately, even after suffering in silence because of you, I just can't stop going back to you.

Please, please don't leave me?*
I love you...

For the most part, I think I'm a pretty expressive person.
If I stub my toe on the leg of a table I will curse to high Hell and condemn the person who even invented tables in the first place.
I mean who puts tables in dark rooms?
Use your common sense, people.
Lord knows that I don't have any.

I'm know as a rather blunt person in my group of friends.
I try to be as honest as possible, but that's hard to do when you're such a good liar.
So in order to compensate for this wonderful trait of mine, I hand out "I love you's" like cheap hair ties, except never to the people that really matter.
In the six years that I've known you, I've said "I love you" once.
And it's not that I don't--trust me--that's not the case.
It's that yours was too sincere.

I love you.
You make me nervous and uncomfortable.
I love you.
You make me want to tear my hair out.
I love you.
**** it, I want to **** you sometimes.
I love you.
Those three words will never be enough to fully describe  every adoring, furious, loving, and murderous thought I have about you.
*I love you.

We crossed pinkies and you led me into a house full of rooms that I didn't know.
We saw a rooms full of old clothes
A room of people with dogs and cats everywhere
A room where I laid my head in your lap and stroked your leg while you played with my hair.
A room where we sat down and I realized that I couldn't go through with it; couldn't go through with us
So I ran into the next room where there was a garden and at first it seemed nice, but with every step that I took the garden died and left me without air to breathe.
And then you pulled me out, into the last room where you held me in your arms nd danced me around the room until I realized that I wasn't gasping for air anymore.
You held me close and we walked out together.

Why is it that love and suffering makes poets of us all?

When suffering,
we are told to get rid of what makes us feel so horrid
and we do,
but hold onto the memory for its sheer poetic beauty

And love?
Love *****.
It's a whirlwind of emotions that you can't exactly pinpoint
and even though I am guilty as well,
I have yet to understand why we would want to subject ourselves to the pain of writing it all down,
of immortalizing it.

Why is that love and suffering makes poets of us all?

Your body feels strange next to mine

what once used to fit perfectly
now feels forced with
weird angles
and arms
badly intertwined

i watched You all day

You looked down
fingers blurring up my sight
it was silent
but i heard every time
Your thumbs thumped against the bright display
someone else's words taking You from me

oh Lord
don't you think it'd be easier
just to let me go?

i don't understand the point of it all
don't understand why i choose people
that won't ever give me
all i give them

don't understand why it's
happened three times
in the span of
six years

You're right next to me
but i'm not really there
am i?

the door is ten feet from us
and Your body feels strange next to mine
but i don't understand
why i never  
get up
and
leave

In high school, my mom was an athlete.
A runner.
She was in cross country and so were my uncles.
She was in it to help and motivate them.
See my mom didn't run from troubles; she ran headfirst into them.

I got that same trait.
I am by no means an athlete, but I'm a runner.
I run when I'm mad, and when I'm bored, and for exercise.
The only difference between my mom and I is that she ran towards her troubles, but I don't.
I run and run and run and keep running to get as far away from them as possible.

I'm a runner.                
It's in my genes.

I'm not asking you to trust me
because I don't know what kind of mistakes I'll make in life

I'm asking you to love me in spite of those mistakes
because God knows that I've done the same with you.

I noticed something was wrong when I stopped singing. This was my outlet, my way of expressing all of my feelings. Everything I had ever thought was brought to life by song. Then I stopped, and it was all your fault. No song seemed to describe how I felt about you. I liked you. I hated you. I adored you. I cursed you. But most of all, I loved you.

So I started writing. To cover up my feelings with metaphors and similes that nobody but me understood.

I've thought about showing you these writings. I knew you would understand them. You were so much like me. You knew my thoughts better than I did. But I was scared. Scared to show you how I felt because like you with the world, I was scared that you wouldn't accept me.

When I became aware of this, how I felt, I became distant. I didn't want you to see how I had grown to love you. I knew you would. You were like me. You knew something was wrong and when you asked me about it, I avoided you even more. This hurt me so much more than I think it did you.

I stopped singing. This one dead spark is what lit up a whole new world of mysteries and confusion about you and me alike. That was it. One simple thing.

I stopped singing.

Dear 6th grade,

One day you will realize that he is not the most important thing in the world.
One day you will realize that he already did.
Long ago, actually.
You were just too love-drunk to notice or care.

You are not in the picture anymore.
You never were.

Learn this.
Face this.
Accept this.
Live with this.
It shouldn't be too hard.

You been doing it this far.

What's your whole life more?

Sincerely, 12th grade.

Age: 1
There's really not much to remember from a year of being born.

Age: 2
Still nothing.

Age: 3
Nope

Age: 4
Now we're getting somewhere. Dad left. He left us with a an angry hole in the wall from where I saw him kick.

Age: 5
My cousin burned my hand severely with an iron this year. I remember watching all of the other kids got to ride their bike and play around. And me? Holding my bandaged hand from the side of the street.

Age: 6
There's a faint memory of a pink and yellow skirt that I wore all of the time. I was in love from the first time my mom brought it home. This was the year I received the infamous Care Bear that all of my family soon learned to love like they did me.

Age: 7
I went trick-or-treating as a princess this year. It was the best of them all. Mom found someone else to "love".

Age: 8
I lost my Care Bear. This was enough to ruin the rest of the year. I entered the third grade at a new school that mom said was closer to our real house. I realized that my dads side of the family didn't like me. I wonder why.

Age: 9
The cousin who burned my hand? I burned her with a firework stick in the ****. It was an accident of course. The nurse pulled me out of class and had a very personal talk with me about my growing *****.

Age: 10
In the fifth grade, I experienced my first gain and loss of friendship. It prepared me for the years to come.

Age: 11
The sixth grade; the year that I met all of the important people in my life. This is the only explanation needed. Most importantly, I met you.

Age: 12
She ran away from home and when I finally found her, we cried together in her room. I soon left her.

Age: 13
Finally a teenager and still trying to escape my growing feelings for you. Ah the eighth grade.

Age: 14
Ashly became the closest thing I had to a best friend. And then there was you...

Age: 15
We drifted and Ashly became so much more closer. It's still a little hard to talk to you when I know that you have new friends and that you might not miss me. We still talk and every once in a while, I sense hope...

It is okay to be weak sometimes.
It is okay to cry sometimes.
It is perfectly fine to just let your worries go away for a while.

So I will be here with tissues and nothing else you need for when you ask me.

Or even if you don't ask
I will be here.
Please know that.

It hurts me to see you so full of emotions that you don't know what to do with
because I know how that feels.

I'm sure you've had just as much practice with bottling up emotions,
like I have,
but look where that's landed us.
Crying in school, hoping they won't see.
Secretly wishing they will.

We didn't deserve that pain
Or at lest you don't.

Tell me what makes you weak.
Tell me what makes you cry
And I promise to try to make your worries go away,
even if for only a while.

my feet are cold
but i can't seem to to gather the strength that it takes to go and get a simple pair of socks.

i'm tired
i'm alone
i'm sleepy
and i need to finish my college applications.

why don't i have my life together yet?
why do my counselors expect me to?
i'm just a child.
i still cry when I watch scary movies.
i still need my mom to **** spiders for me.
i still have stuffed animals
and after years of knowing You
i still need Your approval.

i guess it's all my anxiety taking over,
but i've begun thinking about what i'm going to do when i leave,
when You leave.

what will happen?
will i cry?
will You?

i seem to cry lot lately.
i wonder if it has anything to do with our impending graduation.

i've had better days than this.
it's a shame they all involved You.
i'll never be good enough will i?
that's alright.
i've grown accustomed to Your rejection.

sad, isn't it?  
because no matter how hard i try,
all of these ****** poems will always lead me back to You.
i don't think You could care any less.

You make me want to die.

"Bulimia nervosa, an eating disorder that involves bingeing on food followed by purging, can cause gum disease, osteoporosis, kidney disease, heart disease, and death. Bulimia affects mostly women and teens." - WebMD.com*

My eyes blurred as I wiped away the remaining evidence from my mouth.
I cried.

It seems that bulimia had taken over my life these past couple of months.
Even my hands shake now.
For some reason, I didn't seem to care that I could give myself cancer with this, that I could die from this.

My headaches have gotten worse, my depression even more intense.
And my poor, sweet mother, willing to believe that I am sick and NOT doing this to myself.

Could I really do this to her?
She now has the duty to care for several children that are not hers because she cares too much.
She tries, but she no longer listens to her own children.

My mother is broken.
Revealing this to her will only break her more.

So I'll keep quiet.
Purging and ridding myself of my shame and self respect.
What could possibly be worse?

Please don't look at me like that.
I wasn't the one who delivered the first blow, the first push.
It was you!
Yes, you with the wide eyes and closed heart.
You who singlehandedly brought me to my demise.
All it took was a glance and a couple of words from your lying mouth.
Nothing more, nothing less.

I can feel the tension even through the ***** speckled glass seperating us.
Unsolved questions and answers linger in the lane between us; captivating and enthralling us.
It's funny how we knew each other so well.
Then suddenly, we knew nothing.
Maybe you hated me or maybe I just assumed without ever taking you into consideration.
Either way, it's a moot point now.

We stare at each other like deer caught in headlights; scared to look away.
It seems like an eternity has passed when I finally start to react.
That's also when I become aware of the tear rolling down my cheek.
My lips start to form themselves around your name and all too suddenly the light turns a murky green, signaling the lonely drivers and passengers to drive off; to move on.
As we leave each other, my mouth forms a semi-smile hoping for forgiveness; hoping for one in return.

It's too late.

You're gone now.
Just another car in a lane driving off; driving away from me.
Maybe it's for the best.
Perhaps there was things left unspoken and unthought of.
I guess now we'll never know.

I'm so tired
So winded
So full of it
And by it, I mean the voices.
Dear lord, they are everywhere.
They fill every which crevice of my mind.
The places I didn't even know existed.
Filled with them.

Them.
Implying that they are plural.
Maybe they aren't.
Maybe they are one.
One voice.
My voice.

Variations of my voice all telling me so many different things.
They call out my insecurities and exploit them.
The worst of all being:
*You will end up alone.

Sometimes I sit and wonder what people say about me when I'm not there.
Am I the bad friend?
Am I the one that everyone regrets meeting?
The way that you avoid me makes me think that I am.

What did I do wrong?
I'm there when people need me, but that's just the thing;
I'm only there when people need me.
I make Mr. Cellophane look like the elephant in the room.

See, I just don't get it.
I know that this sounds selfish, but when will somebody finally start to care about me?
When will the time come that I don't have to message first and then not even get a reply?
God, not even my "best friends" talk to me on  daily basis.
Or even a weekly basis.

I'm like a public water fountain.
People are glad when they see me, but it's not like I'm their first choice
They were probably too broke to afford a better choice.
I am a placeholder.
I am temporary.
I will never make the final cut, but do you remember when you said that you would always have time for me?
Well you and I must have different definitions of the word "always" because time is up and wow, it went so fast.

So the next time that you complain about having no friends, I want you to remember how I was there.
Me, the nonexistent friend; I was always there to pick you up when you needed it and even when you didn't.

I want you to remember every 2 AM conversation,
Every fear that you told me,
Every deep, dark, secret desire,
Every ******* lie that you uttered.
I want you to remember how you pushed me away; how I came back the first couple of times it happened, but this time I won't.

I won't be your ego boost and I refuse to satisfy your sadistic need for attention because I am not the bad friend.
I have never been and never will be.
And maybe I'm thinking too much or maybe I'm not.
Maybe this is all true or not
And maybe one day I'll have the courage to tell you this to your face.

But sometimes I sit and wonder what you say about me when I'm not there.
Am I the good friend?
*Am I  the one that you regret meeting?

This American life.
This great life.
Let's talk about great.
This is a country where we love food, but one of our greatest dangers is obesity.

Not violence, not sickness  like cancer or AIDS or TB, but obesity.
Self-induced, wanted, not-so-desperately needed.
We **** people on sight because "he looked at me funny" and get away with it, but condemn the man who was protecting his family and for what?

The color of his skin or the language of his homeland?
Take your pick.

Oh and there's tons more too.

I was born in South Texas.
I am an American citizen,, but my roots come from Mexico.
I look like my people, I speak like them too,
but when I went up North to New York,
I felt that I wasn't wanted.
I didn't belong.

In the state of immigrants,
in the land of aliens, because the Natives were kicked out long ago,
I did not belong.
Me!
Whose ancestors had been here for centuries, whose people of South Texas have been here since before these "great states" were never great,
I do not belong on this soil.

God bless America.

Did you know that in the U.S. of A you can sell ******, which demoralizes the "sacred communities of our homes",
but two people of the same *** who love each other so deeply and passionately cannot marry for the simple fact that they will ruin our "traditional family values."

Nothing is traditional anymore and by God nothing is valued.
But **** this life.
This American life.
This great life.

Not so great after all...

I love children.
Okay let me rephrase that:

I love children that aren't mine.

I have abso-positively-*******-lutey no responsibilities attached to them.
They didn't leave *my body completely wrecked.
They don't look at me and call me "momma"
or any other variation of the name
and I love that
because frankly,
children scare me.

Okay let me rephrase that:
The idea of ruining a child's life scares me.

First off:
I wouldn't think my newborn child is beautiful.
Newborns look like potatoes and I don't particularly find potatoes attractive.

Secondly:
They'd have a name that haunts them in their sleep.
I named my dog Legolas after gorgeous Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings so don't try me.
I will name them Harry ******* Potter without batting an eyelash.

Thirdly:
I will be brutally honest with them.
When they ask me why the sky is blue,
I will say that I don't know.
I didn't pay attention enough in school to know.

When they ask me why some boys kiss boys,
I will say that it's perfectly normal.
Mommy probably kissed some girls and boys at some point in her life.

When they ask me why the little girl in their 2nd grade class comes to school with
bruises on her arms,
with her hair in two pigtails,
a smile on her lips,
but fear, loneliness, and heartbreak in her eyes,
I will say that some people in this world don't deserve Angels.
They don't deserve to be alive at all.

When they ask me why they don't ever see their great aunt Perla,
but hear her name whispered at family events,
I will tell them to ask the little girl in their 2nd grade class.

Fourthly:
They will learn to clean house, top to bottom,
The way my momma taught me.
They will hate it.
Then they will hate that they love it.

Fifthly:
I will argue with them every step of the way until they can learn to hold their own.
But until then,
No, you may not have $60 to go shopping.
Unless you're buying books or music.
Then you can have $100.

Lastly:
I will teach them to love.
My love for them will be overbearing, smothering, and unwavering.
This is how they will love their children.

But when they finally ask me what love is,
I will smile,
bittersweetly,
and say that love is...

Love is drowning in the ocean,
gasping for air that never quite reaches your lungs,
but when it does,
it hurts
because water doesn't belong in your lungs.

You can't help breathing the water in, however.
You just want it.
Want something to fill you, to overwhelm you.

Love is repeating this, over and over until one day,
the breathing
doesn't hurt anymore.

There is no more water in your lungs.
Just air.

There is water still, all around you,
but you are not drowning anymore.

You're swimming.

You, my dear, sweet, beautiful, hypothetical child,
are swimming!

*which is something that I have yet to do.

I want to be the one to make you smile that awfully beautiful smile.
To be the one that you ask for advice.
I want to be the one that you come to for comfort.
To be the one that gets to see you at your best and your worst.
I want to be the one you play your beautiful saxophone for.
To simply be your muse.
I want to be the person you can tell all of your ***** secrets.
To be the diary that you talk to every day.
I want to be the stars that fill your beautiful night sky.
To be the sunshine that can break through your clouds of sadness.
I want to be the music you love so much.
To be that one song that you always sing no matter what.
I want to be the air you breathe.
To be the one thing you badly need to survive.

To be frank,
I want to be the one that you love.

To the boy with the saxophone skills,
I miss you.
I never said it and now I see that it was bad.
I hope I see you again.

To the girl who ******* me over,
******* ❤️

To my old youth leaders from church,
You left and so did I.
You might come back, but I won't.

To my sister,
Yes, I'm still *******.
I had to call 911 for you.
I'm glad you're okay.

To my first crush,
Was I too much?

To my cat,
You only like me because I feed you.
That's okay.

To the girl who is quieter than I am,
Speak up, honey.
They won't see your brilliance so make them hear it.

To the homeless man on Jackson Road,
Where are the shoes my mother bought you?

To my other sister,
You are a whirlwind of emotions.
You are amazing.
You are unstoppable.
Grow up and be unconquerable.

To the mailman,
I'm sorry that we're always ordering so many things online.
I'm sorry that they were big packages.

To the cute boy at HEB,
I know you work there.
Yes, I look for you every time.

To my cousin Denisse on my mothers side,
You're annoying.
Shut up.

To Denisse's older sister, Monica,
I'm sorry about your sister.
I'm sure you've hit her.

To my "father",
It's been years since I last saw you.
It's been years since you last stopped calling.

To my friends,
I know I'm an idiot.
I know I'm sarcastic.
I know I can be mean, but trust me, I don't mean it.
Please forgive me.

To the man at the post office,
Get over it.
It's your job.

To my 7th grade Texas history teacher,
You taught me the meaning of sarcasm.
I have yet to perfect it.

To my 9th grade history teacher,
You were the sweetest teacher I have ever had.
You taught me the meaning of procrastination.

To my best friend,
You are my soul mate and will always be my better, whiter half.

To my brother,
You might think that I hate you, but trust me.
I don't.

To my stepfather (the second one),
You were always my favorite one.

To the stray cat that attacks mine,
Go away.

To the missing sock that always stays lost,
Where have you gone and how can I find you?

To my UIL Ready Writing sponsor,
I enjoyed spending those Saturdays with you.
You taught me where the word "*******" came from.
Thank you.

To the boy that my best friend dated for a while,
She did like you, I promise.
Her love was just too strong and burned way too fast.
Better luck next time.

To the computer-programming textbook that I've had under my bed for a year,
I don't regret that decision.

To my mother,
I love you.
Thank you for raising me the way you did.

To the kids who skipped and smoked at school,
How I wish I could join you.

To the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City,
One day I will go back and you will be open and I will perform.

To the boy I love,
I hope that one day you find someone that you love as much as I love you.
*I hope it's me.

To the boy leaving to California,
I'm gonna miss you, but most of all,
I'll miss the eyebrows that you tried so hard to hide from me.
I saw them anyway.
You'll do the music scene of Idyllwild good.

To the girl who ******* me over,
I don't know why I kept you in my life for so long.
******* ♥.

To my Pastor,
I'm not supposed to ask you for forgiveness because you say that it's not your place to forgive.
I hope that you do.

To my sister,
Yes, I am leaving to San Antonio. No, you may not have my stuff. I'll see you at the concert.

To my Prom-Effect crush,
Sometimes I pull out our pictures, read our old conversations,
I look at the goofy drawings you gave me.
You gave me so much more.
Thank you.

To my dog,
You're dumb, but you're cute.
I'm going to miss cuddling with you at night.
I'm going to miss the comforting nuzzles you gave me when you saw me cry.

To the people I spent my time at Moonbean's with,
Who will I get my indie coffee with now?
What will I do if I can't see your calming faces everyday?

To the homeless man  on Jackson Road,
You were gone for a while.
I'm glad to see you're back.

To my other sister,
It's been more than a year and you're already so big.
I promise to be there for you in any way that I can.

To the mailman,
Yes, that is my parking spot. No, I will not move.

To the cute boy at church,
That's all you'll ever be. I see that now.

To my cousin Monica on my mother's side,
You're going through a lot right now.
I know you are.
Remember that you've been through this before.
Maybe it's not easier the second time around,
but at least it's familiar.

To my other cousins, Jessica and Gaby,
I expect great things from you both, each in your own way.

To my "father",
It's still been years since I last saw you.
It's still been years since you last called.

To the five people with a bracelet that reads "Bestie",
You are some of the most amazing and breathtaking people I've ever met.
You are the ones I am scared of losing.
I pray that I don't.

To the lady at the post office, Michelle,
We never really interacted much.
Thank you for that.

To my 12th grade biology teacher,
Santi, your work is a pain in the *** and I didn't learn a **** thing.
I already miss seeing you first thing in the morning.

To my 12th grade English teacher,
YOU ABSOLUTELY ******.
I CAN'T BELIEVE I WASTED AN ENTIRE YEAR IN YOUR CLASS.

To my better, whiter half,
You are still my soulmate,
You are still my person.
I will never forgive myself for being a horrible friend to you when you needed it the most.

To my brother,
For the love of Jesus, please don't ever change.
I'll see you soon.
Clean your room.

To my dad,
It's got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

To my stray cat,
I honestly don't know how you've survived this long.

To the bookshelves in my closet,
I now you're already full and I haven't read 60% of the books there,
but where can I place these 7 new books?

To my orchestra teachers,
You taught me so much more than music.
I will make you all proud of me one day.

To the girl who went a little ****** this past year,
Have you found your peace?
How about a lie to tell yourself everyday?

To the Parliaments in my room,
I bought you the night I started crying myself to sleep because of him.
I have yet to stop crying.
I think I'll keep you for a while longer.

To my momma,
I won't let anything stop me.
You'll soon have a third diploma to frame.

To the kids who skipped school and smoked,
I changed the wording.
I am one of those kids.

To the University of Texas at San Antonio,
I'm allowing for you to take me from everything that I love.
I pray that you're worth it.

To the boy that I lo-...
It'll be a long time before I'm able to finish that line again.
I hope you're the same person when I do.