you're like that one song,
the one that,
out of nowhere,
gets stuck in my head.

i can only remember a few of the lyrics,
i haven't heard this song in years.

i remember the beat,
the feeling,
perfectly.

and finally,
after days of having you stuck in my head,
i remember the name of the song.

i listen to it again,
after going so long without.

and i can't stop.

i wish i could be more like you.

more outgoing,

less terrified of every small thing.


more self confident,

less unstable.


we're too different,
                                                          i dont know if this,
                                                          if we,
                                                                        will work out.

You asked me why I like you
But I didn’t want to tell
Some of my reasons are cheesy...
But here is why I fell

I love the way your lips curve
When I make you smile
It makes me want to pull you close
And kiss you for awhile

I love the way your eyes twinkle
When you talk about things you love
I truely believe
You are a gift from above

I love that you are compassionate
You have such a big heart
That was the first thing I noticed
Right from the start

I love the way it feels
When you hold me tight
I finally feel safe
Like I could sleep through the night

I love that you don’t judge me
For my less than perfect self
That is more attractive
Than any amount of wealth

There are so many more reasons
But I’ll start with just this few
Maybe someday
I’ll give this poem to you

:)

You see a lot of girls talking about their insecurities
But hardly any boys speak about theirs
It’s like we’re simply not allowed
Like it’s a rule that you can’t be open about your feelings
Well I am
I’m one of the few boys who are
I’m comfortable enough to talk about my uncomfort
And there’s a lot of it
Some boys can relate to girl problems
I relate to them all
I bleed every month
I’m uncomfortable with a lot of my body
I feel feelings
Everyone feels feelings
Girls are encouraged to talk about them
But what about us boys?
Can’t we be sensitive?
Because some boys are insecure
And we need to express it

I see a pimple
Bright on my face
There are quite a lot
To even trace

They travel down
My neck and back
It really makes
Me feel like crap

There are quite a lot
Of things I hate
Like my short legs
And nose that's not straight

My hands are small
Kinda stubby
I have stretch marks
Around my tummy

Even though I have things I hate
Never would I change

For I love it all
Even my so called 'flaws'

My body is mine
And I'm pretty **** fine

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?