Body Parts and Curse Words Symphony Poem
(7/5/2014)

So, you think I'm an *******?
Well then my farts must smell like roses,
because I treat you the sweetest anyone could dare to stomach.
You count mistakes I've made like calories,
forgetting you are a strangling esophagus,
coated in cholesterol and stuffed with lies.
You flex between smooth to striated as visibly as a zig-zag line,
but even as I try to pass you out of my sphincter like the **** you are,
you keep finding ways to come back up my throat like acid reflux.
But I, am an *******.

So, you think I'm a *******?
Well then you must be a kidney stone,
because you refuse to leave my life any less painfully,
than an unwanted calcium deposit in my urethra.
Nice to meet ya, now bye Felicia.
***** as they come,
you ***.
Because you like to torture me,
clutching that red beating thing in my chest,
with the fierceness of a ****** clamp.
But I, am a *******

So, you think I'm a *****?
Well then I am honored to be seen as so sensitive,
because you must be a  brutal ******* crammed into my face.
Which is funny,
because you'll have your face buried in me soon enough.
You exhaust your *****-eating arsenal,
including flicks of your wicked tongue and lips,
a tiny bite as an exercise of your might.
But I'm the one here who is in control.
So call me a raging thunder **** and make my day,
because you hide in ******* disguise,
now don't be scared little guy and stare into Momma Medusa's eyes.
But I, am a *****.

So, you think I have ***** eyes?
Well then maybe you give judgmental stares,
because you are faced with a ***** reflection in the mirror,
but don't blame the fragile glass surface.
The one with smudges and stains, until it shatters,
because these eyes are no simple *** object.
They are the most beautiful brown bestowed upon my body,
and they are filled with the anger,
filled with the rage,
and filled with the envy which accompanies sorrow.
***** eyes, **** eyes,
but gaze into these eyes that are relentlessly unforgiving, named Hazel.
as if they had a name for human pieces of flesh filled with blood.
But I, have ***** eyes.

You wave these body parts around so casually,
wielding them like words used to curse someone.
You scream that they are used to sell ***.
But my body parts are no curse words,
and my body parts are no mere objects.

They are woven together to create a breathtaking symphony.
They don't belong in a sarcophagus, still alive and breathing,
my heart is here and beating,
as much as that ******* may ****,
as much as that **** may ****,
as much as that ***** may throb,
and as much as those eyes may stare,
don't you dare ever go there.

Because while I may be a compilation of body parts and curse words,
you are just beef jerky, a food mindlessly consumed, and overly salty.

I Want to Hold Your Hand Poem
(6/16/2014)

I heard holding hands is what gives an angel its wings.
Maybe because they want to hold on so tightly,
that they need some help flying away.
They know they must go,
but don't know how to say no.
So does that explain why after we held hands the first time,
you disappeared?

Maybe you wanted to hold on.
Maybe you went to heaven,
because you didn't want the stars to see you cry.
So high above those celestial bodies you could do as you'd please,
and watch over me.

Maybe you felt...
the time, just might...
Maybe you were attracted to some other person's light,
Or maybe you were actually a devil in disguise.

One that rips wings off of angels
and traps them on Earth.
Watching with your hideous eyes,
as they hold hands with humans,
trying their hardest to fly.
While you feed off the fleeting might,
that causes their unstable plight.

Maybe you were a snake charmer,
and I, the instrument you played.
Like you could convince the sneaky shadow inside of me,
to slither out into the surface,
and convey its venomous intent,
ready to strike.
That's how you taught me to hold hands.

Maybe you were a tornado.
One that hijacks airplanes,
ripping apart houses,
and wreaking the most unnatural disaster,
that something so naturally beautiful could bring.

Maybe you held hands to stay on ground,
selfishly motivated to keep king status of your worldly mound
of dirt and keep yourself superior,
with the ability to stay,
due to simple saying "hey"
and seducing my hand to move your way.

So my angel,
Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,
I think you'll understand,
When I'll say that something
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

Oh please, grow your wings
and fly away from me.
Oh please, please come save me,
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

The Ninth Father's Day Poem
(6/15/2014)

A 12 year old Wynn,
wandering around the house.
Not so different from a spirit,
one that had shed its oppressive shackles of daily struggles.
A lot of people came to my father's funeral.

Everybody kinda threw a hodge podge of advice at me.  
Saying token phrases that they probably picked up in a movie.  
Things like, "Your father loved you, you were a lucky boy."  
I don't care to remember the rest.  
Although the worst was the people who had the audacity,
the nerve, to tell me, "Time will heal all."  

They must have meant it takes enough time for me to die too,
only able to heal once I can see him again.  
Because I spent the first 6 years numb,
carrying on through awkward motions,
like I needed a good grease or tune up.  

You could hear the **** squeaks
as a poorly maintained robot should.  
Devoid of emotions, unfeeling,
unable to accept the traumatization of tragedy.

I spent the last 3 or 4 years successfully.  
I graduated college.  
I've fallen in and out of love.  
I even grew up into a promising young adult.  
But I also learned how to miss my dead dad.
Time only makes it hurt more as I count each year.
This is The Ninth Father's Day.

Cotton Candy Man Poem
(6/7/2014)

He was simple sugar,
spun on hot air,
soaked in pink,
a tasty treat.
He was cotton candy.

I would wrap him around my finger,
like I could coax a ring out of sugar and thin air.
To have felt him melt in my mouth,
each time the tip of my tongue got a taste.
He was cotton candy.

He was a carnival with all the best attractions.
but balloon darts pop when you pour enough money into the game.
but a dunk tank is just a plunge into shallow depths, a break from the sun.
but elephants should be free, not tamed by fire and humans' greedy desire.
but a clown without their makeup might as well be a less creepy comedian.
but won over stuffed animals are just like cotton candy,
a squishy substance when you need a stable solid.

Step right up!
Spotlight on the star of our circus show,
see the cotton candy man.
His heart made of sugar,
a toxic substance.
His breath's brevity enough to set off cotton candy's chemical reaction,
scorching hot air against pink paint,
there is nothing sweet about being spun.

Dyed in bright colors to deliver a warped reality,
he was seemingly a healthy vibrant,
unlike the poison within.

He was cotton candy,
and I, a circus ******,
craving him, freshly spun.

Personal Perspective Poem (Spoken Word)
5/30/2014

To the women who say they do not need feminism,
for fear of being seen as whiny or sensitive,
or for whatever reasons I may not comprehend as a mere male ally.
Please have it in you to look beyond your personal perspective.

To recognize that eye to eye, you do not see other women.
That there are those who cannot see,
acid dripped down their eyelids,
like a tear that burns their skin as much as the insides swell,
all just for wanting to reject a stranger's ****** advances.

To recognize the backs bruised,
bloodied buddies removed from bodies.
That little life extensions not allowed to live,
just for being born girls or maybe boys,
or somewhere in between sometimes.

Please, to recognize that no matter how inner your beauty is,
no matter how many months you spend spinning a cocoon,
so that you may emerge an empowered butterfly,
there will be evil spiders who prey and wish to restrain your flying wings,
in the entanglement of their webs.  
Spinning **** like it is the finest of silks.

To recognize a young female's suicide pressured by her peers,
either called fat, considered undesirable as a volcanic eruption of ash,
and coal, as dark as the hearts of those who have rejected her.
Or she was of dark skin which you might consider just as bad,
because your personal perspective probably left behind women of color.

To recognize that *** should be a sweet something,
not a spontaneously evoked sitting or standing or shouting and screaming,
inside silently, but knowing nobody will hear because you fear,
how they might react in the middle of a frat party,
where **** culture runs rampant,
ripping open limbs to toss in the trash with ****** wrappers,
but blame it on the ******* empty beer bottles.

To recognize that discussions about female TV characters,
and video games, are not about the pixels on the screen,
but the pixels ingrained in young girls' minds, an afterimage.
Left as if women who don't feel they have a place in this world,
do not deserve the avatars they want to represent their digital escape.
Such a simple request, please give her character armor suitable for battle,
her ******* need not be exposed to archers' arrows,
or a swordsman's stab, plunging carelessly into cleavage.

To recognize that commercial prostitution isn't something to sneer at,
when our society prostitutes women in commercials.  
Selling burgers that look like toxic bombs,
you are actually being advertised a buffet of *******.  
Selling beer with a wet white t-shirt contest,
drinks shouldn't be poured on anyone other than a **** at a bar.  
-
Climbing views in ****** slip videos trending on YouTube,
for a moment not worth the notice of any hash tag other than #YesAllWomen.
All of this shameless showing of the human anatomy,
as though it were a product.
Yet we can't seem to get behind feeding a baby the nutrients it needs,
anywhere in public other than an unsanitary bathroom stall!

To recognize the pioneers of past and present,
whose names now whispered in the footnotes of history textbooks,
can't be screamed loud enough at you!  
Shouting, Nellie Bly cannot save you if you voluntarily are a lunatic.  
Shouting, Mary Wollstonecraft cannot avert,
the monstrous male gaze you feel on your *** as you meander,
if you do not join her tribe as an Amazon Warrior of the Pen.  
-
Shouting, Betty Friedan cannot persuade you to liberate yourself,
if you do not think there is anything mystical about feminine mystique.  
Shouting, Laura Bates' 2012 Everyday Sexism Project,
in this modern fourth wave of feminism will become useless.
If you let it wash over you like another small wave,
in an ocean of daily sexist struggles you deny exist,
and blame on anomalies like the mental health of a certain shooter.  
-
Shouting, Kitty Genovese who screamed at everyone.
They watched but they didn't help. 
They watched but they didn't help.  
They watched but they didn't help.
And now shouting at you,
you are watching, but not helping.

Most importantly, to recognize the up and coming feminists,
of the future, with whom you do not identify,
because you think you don't need feminism.
To recognize those who will have to fight so **** hard,
to give you the privilege to be such an *******.
But that's just my personal perspective.

Never Have I Ever (Slam Poem)
5/27/2014

Having a best friend makes you think of weird things.

Stuff like:
Getting slapped in the face with a fish is more about smell than texture.
13 nights in a row drinking isn't so bad if you save cash not using mixers.
A stranger hitting on you is a storyline for tomorrow's lunch.
Redecorating my room is just for you, nobody else will see it.
You asked me to go shop with you, are you saying I need new clothes?
Crushing Ritalin in a bathroom, because we stayed up 'til 6am before work.
Pooping is like extra time in the day set aside to call you on the phone.
Why do we play Never Have I Ever when we already know the ever's?
People think we constantly say inside jokes, but we're just telepathic.
I get into shape before you visit town, because you're my best wingman.
If we ever stop being friends, I really hope you don't blackmail me.
Can I designate you to speak at my wedding, babyshower, and funeral?
... or is it too soon to do that?

Losing friends can make you think of weird things, I imagine.

Stuff like:
1. I should stop ordering carne asada fries - I can't finish a whole portion.
2. I keep my curtains closed - I know your car won't randomly be outside.
3. Having lunch alone ***** - I shared a crazy story with the cashier today.
4. I take my poops with the stereo on now - I never could go in silence.
5. My voicemail inbox is full - I can't delete any when your voice pops up.
6. Maybe I should call you.
7. I need to talk to you.
8. I wish I could call you.
9. If only you'd come visit town.
10. Maybe I should go visit the cemetery.
11. I have a new least favorite Never Have I Ever.
12. Never Have I Ever had a best friend die.

And I hope I never ever will put that finger down.