Insane? Stupid? Risky?
Maybe.
Expressive? Freeing? Intimidating?
Absolutely.
Past mistakes, current life, reflective
That's my poetry.

If the right one doesn't come along
I didn't let my heart get rusty.
For my shame of the art has turned to joy
And secrets are best when they're shared.

and i write and i write
and yet
no amount of ink and paper
could ever
scribble off the feelings i had
from the things
i was writing about

Your face is not a secret

to hide behind a veil.

It is your identity—

show it to the world

with pride.

I cried
But no tears fell,
Frozen by the winter air

Bound by frost
Bound by guilt
Bound by darkness

It carried a lonely chill
That settled in my bones
Forever there

Just like me in my grave
Cradled in the arms of death
Why would I want to leave?

i walked downstairs to my room
and cried the way i had taught myself.
curled up in a ball
tears dripping to the ground
gripping the floor
screaming
crying
yelling
but never heard.
silent.
i would never wake my family!
why, that would be mean.
so i cry.
silently.
and rip my hair out
and try not to cut
and punch the floor
and hug myself
and punch myself
and hate myself and feel so, so sorry for the little boy who had to deal with this.
for myself.
i hate this

Today is my birthday,
I’m turning eleven.
My one wish is that when I’m twenty,  
I still feel like seven.
I hear yelling,
An explosion of pandemonium.
I rush downstairs,
Tripping over them.
My smile stretches from wall to wall
I see my loving parents,
Knives in hand,
And at each other’s throats.
The smile fades.
No wishes of any kind.
I return to my room.
Take pencils.
And make myself blind.  

— from my chapbook Glass Three Quarters Empty

When I read
poems from the past,
I barely understand them.

I try, yes—
but they are minds
from another time.

It takes time
to connect with them.

Then I imagine myself:
will they, in the future,
read the poems I write to you
and understand
anything at all?