poetry is supposed to be something for everyone
young, old
democrat, republican
punctuation or not
it is something to be encouraged
even if their first poem is a stumbling mess
about a ladybug or some such thing
with no real direction
and the lack of punctuation
it is a poem
and that should be enough

She built a ukelele
two summers (or decades, or eternities) ago
at a workshop.
It used to be a cigar box
the surgeon general's warning sticker still on it.
It sits on a coffee table
reminding her of how
she never learned how to play it.

I had a nice dream last night
for the first time in a long time
(not another nightmare
or a dream where I would wake up feeling the absence of you
no longer dominating
more like the loss of a nonvital *****)
it was an abstract dream,
flashes of moments -
a nice cup of tea
a lavender-scented pillow
but progress is progress
maybe someday you'll fade into a scar
something I can trace to remind myself
of how bad the wound used to be
progress is progress
I feel like now I can finally say
"goodbye, my love"

no new notifications
what can i expect really
its not like people see stale work
i have to write new poems to get views and likes and hearts and comments and validation
what can i expect really
with the awful way that technology has rewired my brain, i should really just-
PING
oh
i should really go check on that  . . .

life takes after art
art after life
there they go again
chasing each other
who is the dog
and who is the tail
it's hard to tell some days
the people i imagine feel so real
known yet mysterious
and the people that i could touch
are about a mile away

is it that life spawns art
predicts it
or the other way around

his skin feels so small
it doesn't fit him
he screams and screams
hoping that someone will hear him
and give him a better body
one that fits right
one that's not stained with tears
one that's not scraped and battered
"Don't you love yourself?"
they ask
"God gave you a perfectly good body!"
it's not a matter of love
it's a matter of claustrophobia
it's a matter of screaming until your throat's raw
until you can't do anything else
it's a matter of holding your breath to make it all go away

oh, oh

mother please come back

oh, oh,

someone please notice my silent screams for help

oh,oh
oh,oh

and still the world turns
and still he cries
and still people insist
on calling him the wrong things
and still he is scared
scared and disgusted
not by the body
but by the fact that this body
is his.