i shook hands with my priest and he told me god would listen to me
after years of talking to myself, i gave up
if this is the result of a benevolent lord, i want no part in such cruelty
every day spent suffering in this godless existence is another flirtation with the devil's temptations;
he hands me independence and assurance that this universe has no explanations
and in exchange i lose the love i might've had for myself
for a god or for life or for anyone

it's not that i need a god to explain it or to comfort me
it's that they lied when they told me a ghost was worth devoting my life to

No, doctor that's not the problem
You don't understand
I'm putting guns to my head like I don't own my hands
I'm laughing so loud in a crowd with my friends but as soon as I'm home
I feel slightly deranged
There's darkness inside me, doctor,
It's stopping me from living
turning the whole world grey when it used to be so vivid
making me a person that cannot stand to continue living because everything seems pointless and the clock just keeps on ticking
the light is still not coming to the end of my tunnel
Will there always be this black in my vision
I feel like I'm seeing double because one moment
I can't contain myself I'm radiating light
Then all at once the suns sets and I'm struggling to survive the night
Does bliss still exist in this seemingly endless fight
This weight on my chest is reaching a new height
Or rather low, I feel the blackness grow
I just don't know if you can fix me doctor
am I another lost cause
IV's and finger ******
Wrap me up with gauze
You can try to heal me from the outside but it's the inside that is
off

Callarbones & ribcages
The only love of my life.
They made me want to strive
They were the drive that kept me alive
As I cried in desperation for their inspiration,
They were my justification for isolation

Collarbones & ribcages
No more dreams,
No more love.
My motives came from a non-existent light above
A light filled with hates and lies.
The lies that struck me like knives

Collarbones & ribcages
Exercise drills and diet pills,
The image that kills.
Because beauty is pain,
Ana will make sure you die in vain

Never before in the history of humanity.

Has entire generation filmed so much insanity.

Can we pick up an axe and chop some wood.

Can we fix a leaking pipe and do some good.

Never before this entire generation.

Have filmed everything just short of castration.

You see someone on fire.

You only stand there and just admire.

You whip out your cell phone.

Or maybe record it with a drone.

Never before in the history of humanity has a entire generation so diligently filmed themselves accomplishing so very little.

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

The instructor said,

    Go home and write
    a page tonight.
    And let that page come out of you--
    Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.