We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea

I'm a little
-
scared

To open up that
box

That desire
A never dulling     -
fire

How to keep it-
at bay

The desire to       excel      exceed        
Ambition

A calm,
avoidance
denial
SO
   Much
         easier
But,
Should           I
Open this





Pandora's
        box?

The taste of tension, like water, plain but there
Invisible, but felt
A faint undercurrent, a barely detectable wave

Physically, fine, well most of us
But mentally, a little shaky
Slightly off
Not easily detectable

Our lips graced by bald faced sugary sweet smiles
Don't look at the mouth, look at the eyes
Where the truth screams out at you
If, you can detect it

His antics, a little over the top
Her quirks, just slightly more enhanced
But even then,
You can't truly know what's going on behind the curtain
Unless you forcefully lift
But
That could possibly damage it
Completely

A fist bump
Knuckles
My hand-wet
Yuck, no, no, no

A smile
fake
Can't see the joke
Weird, no no no

They turn
Eyes meet?
What it means?
What it means?

Don't ask me.

DON'T ASK ME
Don't LOOK
Don't SEE
Just let me be
Just let me be             free
From this endless torment
by the name of
social anxiety

I heard some guy
Say
“People with ADHD will be good at poetry cause random things pop in their heads”
And...
That got me thinking
what...
Makes someone good at poetry?
Is it, as he believed
     Thoughts
               Scattered
       With              No
            Rhyme           Or
    Reason?

Or it is...
That we have,    A unique way
To looking at      Things
A different         Perspective
Which may often be
RepressedRepressedRepressedRepressedRepressedRepressed

Or at least,
Being easily misunderstood
We just need
          An
                              Outlet?

Or we just like words?
And patterns
And sounds
Oh well,

I’ve often wondered
About this
Stereotype
That poets are
B
     R
  O
      K
E
      N

It’s not true,
We’re not even different
We’re just people who have something
In common
That brings us together
In this
...
I’m just not certain...
If there is,
Something,
...What?

Being frank here,
I think a lot

And I think about
my thinking

And I have a unique way of thinking
as do most people

But I combine my thoughts
with analogies
I conceive through
my creativity
And weave them
into words

Which I have learned to love
through my obsessive reading
in my elementary
school
days
...
That's it
I haven't read
enough official
published
poetry

I don't really
edit my
poetry
much

I don't overthink
it
too much
either

Just my thoughts,
on a lonely page
...
...
...
I've wondered time
and time again,
is this even
poetry?

My thoughts
carved with
a
choppy
cleaver

Rough on the edges
with spots of
honesty

As well as
parts,
as smooth and cold
as marble
The honesty hidden
beneath
eloquence
analogies
other distractions
evasions
...
when the truth
is too much

But it's still me on the page
...
...
But what I can't figure out
is,
do I do it
for social approval?
To be heard?
To spill out my emotions?
To make something beautiful?
...
Just cause?

A wintry night
the wind swirls around
...
...
...
blowing my questions
away with a chill...

She comes to class and goes
“There’s bees in my Head”
Then pulls out
Another mug
Of coffee
Which happens
To be the cause

Another comes
Face on the verge of tears
“He did it again!”
We all know who
“He” is
Then proceeds to
Accept hugs
While giving
An in depth narration

Another comes in
“I’m, just, dying”
She proceeds to get
More hugs
While another friend
Calls her “hot”
And she insists she’s not

The fourth comes in
She’s been sacrificing
Her free time
To attend this class
And her sad tired smile
Says it all
She gets hugs too

And here I am
In the middle
Suffocated
...
Am I emotionally immature?
Am I too much of a cynic?
Is it me, or is it them?
Am I just different?
Or too self conscious?
...
Why do they have so many problems?
...
Then class starts
And I turn to our model,
A plastic skeleton dubbed
-Bony Bonez

And lose myself
In the charcoal

A severe conflict rages within me
Torn between,
Something rip, rip, condemning
And idleness
The kind of idleness where you’re alone within a storm
Perfectly aware that soon enough you’ll have to follow the currents
And flying debris
But for now,
Just for an instant,
You are still and around you is silence
Not
A calm before a storm
But a calm within a storm
The eye of the storm?
A singly moment when you’re able to stand still for just a
Just a single moment
And take a deep breath before you’re flown away

It’s     Odd...
I’ve been all over the couch
Munching on anything
Sour
Sweet
That gets
Within         My line of sight
          CRUNCH
    MUNCH
Gone
  

   But now,
Lying here
Strewn on the floor
Like a broken toy
I       Feel



            Strangely


At peace

An outlet. All I need is an outlet. To get it all out, out, out. So I can shout, shout, shout.
Shout that I’m worth it, not useless
That I can get something, anything done
Because I can
I can
I know I can
It’s just a matter of happening
Because I can
I can
I know I can
I’ve just got to do it
If I can write a story, if I can translate a piece, if I can draw or read the right things
But its all an if
And ifs dont make dreams come true
Ifs dont truly promise anything, anything at all
So here I am
Her I am
Feeling guilty and useless and-no no no
I don’t like the self pity and I disagree with it
I also hate how I keep insisting I am the problem
But I am
So what
So what so what so
I must do somethough though
Something to vent and let it out
So write
                   Or draw
Do something as long as its something or even nothing is fine
Please calm down
Can I though?
And outlet, I need an outlet,
And now we’ve come full circle
                 Back to poetry

I find...
I,
enjoy making fun
of myself
...
pulling out my flaws
and
like colorful balloon animals,
twisting them
into wacky creations
shapes
to laugh at

-Not me
the flaw
to see how silly I can
be

But what scares me
is,
does this
hint
at another flaw
I
seem
to
have?

When one wants to express themselves
Do they use words
Images
Sounds
Actions
What?
We all need one right?
An outlet, for when human emotions pile up
And come overflowing through a waterfall
They need an outlet
Either they’re let out
Or
The pipe bursts
And it’s too late then

My best friend was mine
Before the snooty girl stole her away
With the lure of a stupid fashion show instead of doing gymnastics on the bars
During recess
Like I wanted
What’s wrong with gymnastics!?

My first crush was mine
Before he got a BOY best friend
And then he picked HIM instead of ME to cut the cake
He was mine first!

She brought in a dream catcher
To class
I watched it’s beautiful blue beads and
Elegance
As it’s feathers were softly ruffled by the wind
But it was hers, only her nightmares were blocked
I have nightmares too!

They like her more then me
They laugh at what she says
They don’t care what I say
People look at her
They listen to her
Not me

In math class
She always wins the games
And gets all the candy
She’s the fastest
Cause she’s got all her facts memorized
Faster than me!

Everything
Everyone
Else

has best friends
get their crushes
has awesomer stuff than me
are cooler than me
are smarter than me
are better than me
are better than me
are better than me
are-
...

My god,
what a distorted perception of the world I’ve had!

My mom got me a pair
of blue jeans
I never used to wear
Buttoning and zipping
was a pain

Then we got a dress code
And jeans
Only,
I could wear
But not blue
Too casual

And so they sat forgotten
...
Until a few years later
In a rush
I grabbed something
to wear
and it was
...
...
...
My blue jeans

The feeling of a full stomach is a curious one, despite the protruding bulge and the dull ache
It is impossible to feel dissatisfied
Despite the regret for that one to many slices
Despite the wish that you had gone for a run instead of acquiescence to the temptation of the glowing screen
Despite the knowledge that you’ll soon be buying new pants
Despite any and all obstacles in your way
You persevere
You are the Dictator
The ruler of your stomach
The ruler of your life
Until your sister comes in the room and starts yelling about depleting her potato chip stash

Acedemics, I have some
Control
Art, they say I’m good
They say I’m smart
Acedemically

What if the world was controlled by
Athleticism?

Or,
Social skills?
Which it partially is


But,
I’m smart
I’m talented
I tell myself
Yet-

There’s so much-
I keep myself from
Let myself
Be intimidated by


The supposed
Best years of my life
More like

I’m

Holding

Myself





Back




Am I?
Am I really?


I look at those
Worse than me

And I feel secure


I look at those
Better
A seemingly larger majority


And that security unravels
Like a shriveled up plant

I’m
I
I
Iiiiiii
What

It’s scccccintimmmmidate-

I dunno
Why am I in such a mood?

Hopeless,
Am I?

If I can’t even,
Get the one think I’m good at right
What,
Can I do?

If I hacked my braids off
would my inhibitions go with it?

And I suppose I am,
forever one.
A wanderer, that is.
With the pineapple backpack absolutely screaming, "she tries too hard!"
The braids, "Throw back to elementary school"!
She searches in vain,
for a space amidst shadows
Threatening, to swallow her up
She misses the friend, she pushed away
She misses the group, laughing and joking on the other side of her wall of insecurities
She attempts to reassure herself,
Till,
it's torn out and something just
cRaCkS
....

A shattered glass
Can be made anew
But this time,
with clay

Happy, warm, safe
In my couch
Borrowing
Deeper
Into soft
Fluffy
     Floating
          Rather
On
  A
   Cloud
Quite      nice
     No obligations
Just
    Flight
My mind         drifts                        away
And my body,
An
    Empty
         Vessel

There are certain words
Like, peppermint
Vanilla
Coca
That just make you taste sweet
And warmth
A cozy afternoon
By the fireplace
On Christmas