poetry is hard
everybody wants to read
your most personal thoughts

the only success you'll see
is when you paint your heart across the page
and pour your soul into pressing that simple "save"

my voice seems worthless until I spill my secrets for the world to see
but what if I want to keep secrets to myself
and let the world see what it thinks it wants

let me write soppy stories of summer days
or mornings filled with cliched coffee cups
loaded with the "real" problems every poet apparently has

the real Problem is that everybody has a problem with not having problems
why can't we be happy having perfect lives

instead, I have to pretend I have problems
when all I really have is the standard stress that comes with being young

The closest thing I have to a real problem is the parabola on my worksheet and the other math problems beyond it

I'm no different from any other aspiring author
wanting recognition for lying
and exaggerating
and imagining problems into existence

because no story exists without conflict
and no peace exists with problems
so we have a bit of a perfect problem paradox

She was so lucky.
Friends.
Several of them.
All of them kind and real and amazing.
School.
So kind and real and amazing.
Nobody scans her as she walks the halls.
Nobody judges her every choice.

Nobody notices when she chooses to eat information instead of food.
Nobody realizes she notices the little glances just barely within her sight
     Or the muffled snickers
     Or the sly comments.

Nobody knows how absolutely aware she is.
Nobody hears her trembling breaths in the bathroom
silenced by the palm of her hand.
Nobody could ever know how hard it is to ignore all of it;
                                              how hard it is to not hate yourself;
                                              how hard it is to hide everything
carefully packaged under the confines of her undershirt.

Nobody can tell that inside those bulging rolls is simply a girl with social anxiety and insecurities beyond mental health.
Nobody sees her bury her feelings in her sparse salads and amaranthine assignments.
Nobody sees her.

There are a handful of vague words you should never use:
this or these, in a non-specific way,
good,
bad,
thing,
something,
anything,
everything-
           but
nothing is acceptable as there is often no alternative.

You should stop to smell the roses
I think they're starting to rot

Luckily, the stench of your lies
should hide any signs
of decomposition

Not that you've noticed death before
not even when you tore
my heart from my chest

Certainly not when you lied
and consequently died
in my eyes.

Nostalgia laps over memories like waves brushing sandy beaches
Hot, hazy days cooled only by the frigid waters of time
When freedom tasted like sticky sweet ice
Melting so slowly, too quickly
School bells end those happy days
Waiting for the next year

Sunny days barely touch me through the walls of my home.
Now I live in a box in the sky
But heights don’t fill me with that giddy rush
That pure emancipation.
Nothing seems to make me so happy as those days
When freedom tasted like sticky sweet ice
Melting so slowly, too quickly
But we were children, then
Everything was a thrill.

I imagine leaving
Rushing down country roads
Ignoring the world
Because what’s the point of it?
Sitting in a box, only going where someone else takes you?
There isn’t one.

The day I decide is deafening
Silence screams so sickeningly.
Tell them I'm sick.
Don't tell them I'm sick of them.
Just sick.
I run.

Suddenly, I’ve liberated myself
Unimpeded by obligations.
I don’t need those memories
When freedom tasted like sticky sweet ice
Melting so slowly, too quickly,
I have that coursing through my capillaries
Creating a cocktail of chemicals
Adrenaline and endorphins.
No, I’m free.