That boy who you see in class everyday,
Yeah, the one with the long hair that covers his eyes
And the dark, ratty sweatshirt?
Do you know what he goes through on a daily basis?
His mom is a crack addict, his dad is in jail,
And he's the youngest of seven siblings.
The only real food he ever gets is
The “terrible” school lunch, which to him
Tastes like heaven.
The only real exercise he gets is from
Running away from his mom when she's high,
And the only real alone time he ever gets is
When his mom locks him in the
Bathroom for days at a time.
So don't get mad at him for
Missing your group's presentation day,
Or for always asking you for your food at lunch.
Get mad at the people who make
His life at school as bad as home,
The people who talk loudly about his horrible hygiene,
Who laugh when he doesn't understand a math problem,
Who visibly flinch whenever he walks by just for the fun of it.
Get mad at them.
And then get mad at yourself.
Be upset with yourself for having the power
To help this kid and kids like him, and ignoring it.  
Be upset with yourself for talking
About him behind his back,
Refusing to share your food at lunch with him,
And for avoiding him in class.
Be upset with yourself.
And then do something with this anger,
This passion you have built up.
Share his story, help someone like him,
At least vow to never, ever, let something
Like this happen to your child.
I wrote this poem.
What will you do?

When kids write their birthday lists,
They want the newest Iphone,
A certain brand of jeans,
Or the best Jordans.
Is this what growing up is,
The moment you realize those
Things don’t matter?
Because if I made a true
Birthday list now, I would want
World peace
An end to world hunger
A way to make college more affordable
Better patience with those I love
A way to deal with my insomnia
A man to hold and cherish for life
And for the world to have more compassion
And destroy all traces of hatred.
I wish I could stop all my worrying;
I wish I could write birthday lists like I used to.

I was sixteen when the machines came.
The letters “C-A-T” screamed at me from across the street
As the harsh yellow tore at the roots of the
Cherry trees across the street.
Of course the orchard had never been mine,
I had not planted the seeds and curated the
Beautiful blooms through their short lives,
Picked the cherries off the trees myself.
But what about all the photoshoots I’d done
Among the gorgeous white blooms,
All the times my friend had walked through
The rows of trees to get to my house and
Left paint splatters of cherries across the kitchen floor,
All the sunsets I’d seen through the leaves
That made me nostalgic for things
I had never experienced?
What if I’m growing up and moving out
And can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that
These plants that have smiled at me from my
Window for over a decade have returned
To the Earth?
What if these days the
Weeks are crying when they should be glowing and
The absence of trees is simply the target of
One of those odd tricks that sorrow shoots out of the mind
That remind me that change is the only thing that’s
Permanent?
I wish that the emptiness of the field could be replaced by
Happy little white blooms
But instead the CAT machines screech and moan
And all I can feel is
The ache of old nostalgia and the
Peculiar nostalgia of the unknown.