what is love
but an evolutionary tool
to boost population
what is love but
a chemical cocktail
stewing in your brain.
no, really
what is love?

tape my mouth with duct tape
whisper goodnight in my ear
and wonder why I do not respond

old friends
an email in my inbox
you owe me time
I gave you my heart
and then didn't see you again
for around 1.5 years now
falling out of friendship
but I still love you.
the world owes us time.
(the world owes us a lot of things)

i don't miss you
but i sure miss the feeling
of having someone i loved
more than myself.

let's dance, darling
dance until our muscles wear themselves out
and we drop dead
on your daddy's nice carpet
going out not with a bang
but with one step too many.

if you came crawling back to me
i'd take you no doubt.
even if you still didn't love me.
because that's ok
as long as i have someone to love

she tilts closer to me
she pouts, i can't help but smile
i don't know if she knows how funny she is

a Polaroid picture
faded and creased
i hope she loves me back

if it wasn't
for you, i'd have made so
many friends by now

when I was younger I was mildly afraid of my own ears.
they seemed to sensitive, too prone to error,
i preferred not to think about them.
I remember the row of booths at the children's hospital.
come on inside, they said.
let's pretend you're perfectly a-ok.
the wires they stuck in my ears hurt.
they hurt like taking out a splinter that's mildly embedded in you, all rough edges and cold plastic.
needless to say, I was not a-ok.

we sit in a field
but instead of stalks of grass
there grows the faintly luminescent tails of falling stars
shimmering red or blue in the darkness.
as i gaze around, i realize that everything here
even the stars, even the sun, even the immortal face of time
is made up of me, as much as i am made up of blood and bone and tissue.
everything except you.
i am simultaneously repelled and attracted by you
so strange, so foriegn,
and yet as comfortable as chatting with an old, old friend.
so i feed a strawberry into your mouth
as you recite the verses of my thoughts
pouring them delicately into my brain
and we watch everything explode

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.

His breath mingles
with the steam from his coffee.
Across the table
she stirs her tea
remembering the way the words
used to flow so easily
smooth and fast
and perfectly understood.
And how he brick by brick
built a dam
one "sure" and "yeah" and "idc" at a time
leaving her on read for days
which to her seemed an eternity
She used to love him
maybe she still does
yet the feeling of dread
and quiet, damp sadness
is something she cannot bring herself to shove away.
What if, in finding hope,
she unearths some long-forgotten pain?
These days she doesn't cry over him
just thinks of what could've been
if they had been different people.

her boogie woogie,
boot and scoot.
her goo bosh vibe,
so small and cute.
silly little Anju stomp,
unaware of self.
bite taken from a chocolate,
stolen from a shelf.
when we are free from this life
we will run in fields
and see the sunset and the joy
life with you yields.

I'm sorry for the times
I didn't treat you right

I'm sorry for the times
I was petty in a fight

I'm sorry for the days
when I thought only of myself

I'm sorry for the days
I couldn't take you for yourself

But
If there's one thing you should know,
it's that I'll love you through the night
I don't care
if you were rude
or petty in a fight.

Because you are the center of my
universe

My love is packed
in every verse

In every stanza
every line
there is hope
that you are mine

And even when you are the one
coming oh so slowly undone
I'll love you more than anyone.

And just together,
one-on-on,

I
will
always
be yours.

write about the grit between your bones
write about the alphabet soup you found in your *****
the words spelling out “I love you”
tell me about how she broke your heart with a flower
tell me about falling in love with a ****
peering through the sidewalk.
I don’t mind
I don’t even brain
After all, darling
I love you

he drinks because he is empty
empty like a used up toothpaste tube
(well, maybe there is a bit more in the old thing but why try to squeeze it out when you can just buy a new one?)
he drinks because he needs to feel something
needs to be something.
his parents always told him he would do something great
now he works at a packing peanuts company
inspecting the hunks of styrofoam for any visible defects.
he drinks because his teachers always told him to finish what he started.
he drinks because of what he could’ve been, because in this case the whole is lesser than the sum of its parts.
so he takes another sip from his beer bottle.
because out of all the things he could’ve been
this is the only real possibility,
the only outcome that could ever be solid, be real
him drinking alone
in a pool of sweat and tears and years of wasted
potential

sometimes i want to burn things
to see them dance with the fire
two partners, fighting for an infinite second
in the brick fireplace of a temporary being.

then they are gone, turned to ashes
the fire burns itself out.
that dance, so beautiful, so inevitable
only lasted a second
before the dancers had places to be

encore, encore
and get another piece of scrap paper
and light another match.

oh, to be the fire
primitive and swirling.
but no.

i'll just have to watch.

diagnosis is an ugly word.
it sounds cold and curvy, like a moldy metal straw.
my mom cried that day, when the doctors said "i'm sorry" and maybe they were sorry, but not as much as me.
can you picture it?
a cold hospital chair, the room smelling of hand sanitizer.
everything seemed so big, then.
gloved hands, the faces attached to them looking concerned, my mom looking more than concerned, and I felt like I was drowning in diagrams and technical-talk, and the hand sanitizer smell was washing over my nose in waves, and the doctors were telling me I would be deaf - can you imagine how I felt?
they say there are five stages of grief, but I think it's like a color spectrum, like red and orange and yellow blending and blending together.
they told me a big word, and they said here, this is what is wrong with you, and I was scared like I had never been before, a creeping stagnant fear, and maybe that is why hospitals make me a little anxious now, and maybe that is why my ears feel delicate and sensitive and I am a little bit scared if what secrets they are hiding.
it really is an ugly word.
huh.

Jeffery,
if you're reading this,
(which you might be or you might not be
how am I supposed to know)
this is your sign to
LEAVE ME ALONE.
do not disturb.
these doors are lovingly closed to you.
goodbye.

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

a scream is little
other than a sudden wake
let's all stay asleep

back
behind the curtain
loom chromebook carts & dramatically stacked chairs.
everything looks precarious, somehow
the unneeded extras stacked beyond view.
we lay
sharing a long pillow.
close to the stage, so we can hear when the whistle blows.
& we lay close to each other.
i'm like a furnace,
we joke.
so warm-blooded.
how nice & good & easy it is to just be
happy.
here in this place full of unneeded extras.
the group of us,
giggling on the floor.

a hopeless romantic
now she's just hopeless.
he was the man (boy, really)
of her dreams

he's not a nightmare, exactly,
it's just that she woke up
and her expectations fell down
to be dashed on the rocks

she's not outright sad
just melancholy
not quite blind,
just an occasional haze

the rose-colored glasses
were knocked off her face
by her own half-asleep arm

shattering, tinkling, singing
a beautiful song of praise and hope
until the clattering glass turns
to a silent, frozen scream

oh why can't she ever be more
than half asleep.
not rested, not stolen away by her dreams
yet not completely here, either
a separate lonely chair
just for her.

Just because I told you it was okay to cry
didn't mean I wanted to make you.
Now I hear a song on the radio
that I've never heard before
but could swear it was once yours.
This is not an apology
nor a cry for help.
It will not end or begin with me on my knees.
It's me thinking aloud to myself on paper,
letting my thoughts stream out of me like an opened bottle.
Indeed, I don't think I love you anymore,
but somedays I wish I did.
I thought you might want to know
that some days, when I'm alone,  
I say your name aloud
and can taste its flavor on my tongue.

crunching on the red leaves
your scarf slowly uncoiling like a cozy snake
from that place where your hair gradually turns into bare flesh.
i pick up the red knit wool, and run after you
into the first night of fall.

"Well, I was hungry, of course."
Said Elaine, with a lack of remorse.
She had nibbled its nose
and crunched its toes
until nothing was left of the horse.

He isn't a poet
He won't understand
When I tell him
That words go hand in hand.

He claims he doesn't know
What these verses hold
Alas, he can't see
The truth that's untold.

But this is OK
Perhaps even better
He can still see the emotion
Behind every letter

So the words I use
With him are plain
Yet somehow he knows
When they're steeped in pain.

He isn't a poet
Or so he swears
But he can tell
(because he cares)

He knows exactly
What I'm trying to say
(Or at least most
of the time anyway)

I think he can tell
(Though I don't know)
Through the screen
I love him so

His mind may not
Process things in rhyme
But that isn't a bad thing,
Isn't a crime.

I guess that now
What I'm trying to say
Is that I love him
Anyway.

(to K.G.)

I made us a joint spotify playlist
You haven't contributed any songs.
I don't know how to interpret this;
if you're shy
or if there's a lack of interest.
I would ask you, but it feels
I've shared too much already.
And I couldn't bear
to be judged by you.

same old black t shirt,
first day of school ID.

buzzed hair starting to grow in,
glimmering from lamination.

slinking slouching sliding,
stumbling betwixt the desks.

the man, the myth, the legend,
just nobody knows he exists

her bouncy run and tickled fun,
her gremlish punch and happy lunch,
her evil smirk makes me berserk,
her boo gosh falls ‘cause it’s a ****,
I don’t know what this rhyme scheme is,
but Emme is my favorite dish,
I’ll eat her every meal and day,
and don’t think in a weird way,
she’s seriously so beautiful,
so pull your pinky,
Hootiful!

LALALALALALALALALALALALALALA

Right now,
I am perfectly here.
The sunlight shines on my face
and I feel like if I could kick my feet up
simultaneously
into the air
they'd stay there
and I'd be flying.

mr businessman
walks around with battered dreams in his suitcase
home from his desk job
his closest friends greet him
(a bottle of whiskey and an old guitar)

he wanted to write songs
to make people sing out loud
now he files paperwork
and carefully feeds the things he cares about
through the office paper shredder

he watches birds and wishes he could fly
but mechanical wings have gone the way of his dreams
so he'll settle for just falling

falling asleep, falling alone
falling with no one to catch him

still he sings himself to sleep
moonbeams & moonlight
his voice salty and hot in his throat
like the tears he has swallowed through his life

mr businessman crushed his own dreams
for a penthouse view
and what can i say,
it worked

mr businessman
with his briefcase full of battered dreams
sometimes he stays up late at night
but not to cry.

now he's an artist
put all his money in a retirement fund
and started his life from scratch

people say he used to be great
but who knows?
maybe he still is.

he doesn't drink anymore
not even as a social activity
it scares him that if he has it one more time
he may lose all semblance of self control.
he's put himself together
but the glue's still drying.

some day,
in a month or a year
an indefinable period of time
his gaping gunshot wounds
will have faded.
covered in scars, he will be the most beautiful person for just an instant.

but what's gone is not forgotten.
sometimes he will trace his fingers over ridges of flesh
and feel the phantom pain of necrosis of the spirit.
he'll be happy -
but not content.

a good businessman
is never content.

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  . . .

When they say
"you're not like other girls"
it makes me mad.

I find it insulting
to the other girls

the universe may be endless
and we may be specks floating in the void
unknown, unloved, unimportant.
but
fiddling with perspective,
we can frame ourselves
right at the beating heart of the cosmos.

I have phrases stuck in my head
they refuse to go down the drain
which leads to my subconscious.
They will continue to stay there
until I have written them down.
Some have been there for weeks
some linger for mere minutes
before being hastily scrawled in a leather-bound notebook
and letting themselves get carried away in the tide
off to another's thoughts.

When I was younger
I used to want to be the president
or a lawyer.
Now I understand how complicated people are,
I'd like to be somebody exempt from their twisted rules
Somebody who studies the simple and beautiful laws
which transcend humanity.
I think I would like to be a physicist.

dissecting the self for strangers;
an ugly kind of exhibition.
"too personal! too much!"
my inner self screams.
and yet it is something I need to do,
to purge these demons by commemorating them as art,
to make sure I remember to forget.

I don't believe in poets.

It's a word commonly used
(especially on this site)
that I disagree with.

It's a word used
(I think)
to make us feel better,
special,
even elite.

We are none of those things.
We are ordinary people,
the ones you pass by on the street,
the ones whose eyes you look into and fall in love for a split second
before the metro doors open.
We are the ones who bag your groceries
or work at your governments.
We are the ones who are depressed
financially struggling
or perfectly content
& brimming with money and good looks.

We are not extraordinary,
like those from a great odyssey,
an ancient tale of wisdom and war.
We are not special or notable.
We are not perfect or unique.

Our poems are.
That should be enough.

liquor remained necessary,
yet again,
back to the incubators
bottled;
out
to undergo
their little normality.
Bud, proliferate, divide.
From every adult.
Progress.

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

Love is blind
and deaf.
Love's nose does not smell
nor does her skin feel.
And her tongue
has been this way for quite a while.
Forget rose colored glasses,
she gave me rose colored-blindness.
(which is not at all a bad way to live)

fizzing up like a soda pop
my love is sweet and
cold.

bottled up in the back of my mind
my love, unknown
untold.

she
is walking
toward me
I prepare
to
hold my
cards close

spirit week is rapidly approaching
he's somehow both anxious and apathetic
how can he bluff his way through spirit week
when he's been feeling so dead inside recently

everything is boring
he almost misses the times
when he felt broken inside

at least it meant feeling something

he would have a mantra
or write something meaningful
but who would recite it
who would read it
(certainly not him)

ah how twisted is evolution
how twisted is the way
that constant exposure either leaves us numb or hurting

he remembers that day
curled up under the desk
when it felt like his heart
was ripping itself apart
now he knows it was ripping itself out
out of his chest

he misses the days when he could cry

a pocket of calm, luxuriating in the places
you've left in your wake. a sour aftertaste
burning the roof of my mouth.

my eyes trace the lines of a sunset
you, in this moment with me, would have forgotten me entirely;
dropped all else to watch.

(the same way i watch you sometimes, accidentally pausing to wonder.)

your hand curls around mine like
a frond in a forest,
quiet. filled with peace and steady promise and a certain tenderness
not easily found in a
busy sweaty world of poorly painted hallways.

whenever we play cards
i know we'll lose. your giggle gives everything away,
unveils all your secrets, even if they are just ink on paper.

(i love to listen, get lost in new distortions, new perspectives on your joy. . . sometimes i wonder if you see that i'm lost, that you recognize the way i give myself to you fully)

your chaotic, full-eyed wonder is
why i see you

platonically, of course, we both agree vehemently

denying all accusations!

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"

this highway is eternal,
and your hands are so temporary,
so small and delicate compared to mine.
the sound of rain on the roof
is nothing compared to my thrumming heart.
a hummingbird only lives 5 years, at most.

droplets of blood run down her finger
onto the pleated skirt of her uniform
she got into another fight today
they told her she was unnatural
she tells herself she doesn't believe it
but there's a sick feeling
like a parasite squirming in her stomach
feeding off her self esteem.
she opens the door and runs and runs
runs until her feet are barely held together
runs towards the edge of time and then jumps
as she's falling she hears a voice
the principal calls her into his office
he thinks she is nothing special
(he thinks he is nothing special too, but that's another thing)
little does he know the places she's been
trying to escape herself.

Promises, promises,
made by a tree.
"Promise, promise,
remember me

Tell my story
when I am gone.
Think of me,
when I move on.

Perhaps, perhaps,
I am being deceived,
will you remember me
when I leave?"

And so, and so, 
the tree replies,
"look at my leaves,
they stretch to the skies."
"Why would one as lofty as I
look at you,
and tell a lie?"

And so, and so,
the children believe,
they carve their names,
they grow,
they leave.

And someday far,
or someday soon,
a very old tree,
with leaves all strewn, 

In the hours close to dark
will feel a brush against their bark
If they will look then they shall see
a child's eyes,
wild and free

And somewhere in them,
the old ghost
Of a name that served
as a sign-post

To a past, dear and near,
and a future,
one that's bright and clear,
Silently watches from the tree
feeling, indeed, a shock of glee.

For who would have thought,
and who would have known,
that to those who have gone,
and those who have grown,
this gnarled old tree,
would become home.

Why do they call it heartbreak
when it feels more like a toothache,
sourly sweet,
gently throbbing,
overwhelming and unimpressive.
She sits curled up
underneath her desk
her mug forgotten in the microwave
she bit down on something too hard
an old memory of the way he smelled
like strawberries and minty aftershave
or the way his hair fell while he was asleep
and now she has to nurse her injuries
and wait for the pain to subside.
She knew her sweet tooth would leave her here someday
and now instead of tasting moonlight and caramel in her mouth
like she did that night under the bridge
she tastes something sour
bitter and rotting and familiar
and holds herself tighter
wishing & wishing the pain away.