I feel most at home
when my pencil is hitting the paper
or my fingers are hitting the keys

I write to have a voice
a voice that screams to be heard
a voice that has been crying out
for so long

I am no longer willing to sit in silence
I deserve to be heard
and I'll scream until someone listens

My pain has been overlooked
my words have been belittled
my voice has been hushed

But not for any longer

The car
The bar
The music
The laughter
The bottle
The gladness
The bottles
The glasses
The sadness
The reluctance of a listener
The anger
The fight
The door
The sudden thud outside
The gettin' up
The staggerin'
The poor judgment
The rain
The car
The short-long drive too far
The slippery and hazy highway
The swervin' from side to side
The oncomin' other
The collision
The crash
The smash
The mangled torso
The last gasp
THE END

I'm a white, male,
American dreamsicle
who says "****"
way too much
to not be cool.

I read about my father issues
on my mother's face.
I hate things and people
because the news told me to.
Art is ****** and ****** is art;
when Billy killed Sue,
my heart raced.
Do drugs with me
or do none at all;
promise me when we're high
we won't fall.

There are ******* on the street
and the cops are shooting them.
There are ******* kissing
and old, white men are scared.
There are mentally ill people
and they are "seeking attention".
There are women with voices
and old, white men are scared.

I am an American Dreamsicle:
cold, unhealthy, and killing your kids.
You can buy me for 40% off
and I promise to take 60% of your ideals.
I am what my parents don't want me to be
and that is the appeal.
Little do I know, I am every thing you are
and that is my cancer.

I liken our young teenage writers here to rose buds
Then visualize those rose buds in full bloom