Clumsy Gazelle Poem
10/??/2015

Dear Dad,

The last time we spoke, was spent walking down the sidewalk together in some metropolitan area.  There was a tunnel up above, I guess we were in what you would call an underpass and a giant graffiti'd dumpster was awaiting our passage.  You pulled on my arm with strong resolve and guided me into the street, as if the cars would dissolve in front of us as we inched farther away with our feet.  I felt like a modern day Moses, it was magical.  Once we reached the other side of the Chevrolet sea, you pointed out to me that our sudden death match with the traffic was a tactical maneuver.  There was a gang operation being run no sooner than just beyond the trash bin... I woke up from that dream and immediately knew what could have happened.

I took a trip to Chicago this summer, the first of its kind.  I felt like you were watching over me, keeping me safe the entire time.

I can't recall too many words you've said to me, but I have quite a few for you.  Like to start, here's two.  I'm gay.  I wonder all the time, if maybe you already knew.  You always called me by the nickname Cool.  You told my mom that when I grow up I would be a ******* and a big drinker too.  You got one-and-a-half of those right.  

I inherited your hair and your goofy smile too.  Neither of those are all that great, but I guess they'll have to do.  I've heard the story from your poker pals about the time you won at pool.  You got up on the table and in your most graceful pose and poise, the pool stick struck, and as the 8 ball sunk, gravity grabbed and you fell.  Once you stood up, you addressed the **** up and said, "Like a gazelle."    

I've made my own leaps too, but every gazelle has its gaffes.  I've fallen in front of friends but made it out of every situation's extremes. It seems that when gravity pulls me down, all I can do is laugh. I'm glad I got that from you - I'd rather be a 'clumsy gazelle' than a 'graceful giraffe.'

How Does Happiness Happen Poem
11/25/2018

I once heard that happiness is like watching the sunrise.
That when its golden shining rays meet your eyes, their solar power can bring the darkness its demise, by summoning a radiant, dazzling smile--that's how I thought happiness happens for a while.

Someone else said that happiness just takes some time, while living in the present. That its like you wake up one day and suddenly things seem more pleasant. In other words, it should feel like the cut scene of a Disney movie--but my movie writers must have missed the memo.

I've also been told that happiness is a habit. That you tell yourself kind things in the mirror, and then they'll stick to you like a jacket you wear covered in positive patches made of hearts and unicorns and stuff--although my jacket never seemed to keep me warm enough.

Some say that happiness is letting go of the what if's and why not's, the whose its', what's its, and the what nots.
That it's the power to accept what you cannot change.
They all say that happiness starts within, but what if happiness is not in me? What if my body doesn't know how to make happiness happen?

Because I've been through sleepless nights to watch the sunrise, but its shining rays must have stopped before they hit my heart. Instead of a super smile, all I could muster was a lukewarm shoulder shrug and tired yawn and thought to myself, "Well, I guess that's all," as I watched the sunrise, and felt my hopes fall.

I've tried living in the present. I've patiently waited and wished to wake up one morning and be over this. I know they said that happiness just takes a while, but it's taken so long that now it's the ******* future and I've stopped believing in that fool's rumor.

How many mornings have I spent saying sappy affirmations in the mirror? Telling myself, "You are smart," "You are kind," "You are fine, fresh, and fierce," "You will be happy someday." By now, those words I once wore like a jacket have outgrown me and they no longer fit.

Maybe my soul is like a sapless flower, a ship that sinks, or a staring contest filled with blinks... ****, that stinks.
Maybe my brain chemicals have leaked, or my allotted amount of happiness has already peaked.
Maybe my stress and anxiety disagree with me being happy.
Maybe my happiness frosted, the first time I fell in love and lost it.

Even after all these things I've seen and done, I can't comprehend why my happiness is still long foregone.
My smile's corrosion has continued unspoken -- so I've issued a new one with permanent pen.
But I couldn't concoct a formula for the happiness potion -- one that would raise my happiness quotient.
I haven't unfrozen my heart out of fear that it's broken -- and thawing it out will release the emotions.


But I do know one thing that's true -- it's for certain.
If my happiness is broken, then by the principles of inversion, it can be rewoven.

There is no guarantee that it will come promptly,
but until then, I'll keep my pursuit in motion,
and continue to believe in the notion
that someday happiness will just happen to happen to me.

Bones for Breakfast
July 2014

Bones are like peanut brittle.
Gnawed on til toothless,
by us old mangy mutts.
Tastes sweet tender as a drop 'o dew,
Feels soft in a bride's whisper, "I do."
But speaks crunchy crackles of Tic-Tac language,
instead of ******* out bad breath breathe shards in.

Although bones may break,
become buried under archaeologists' noses,
slip through crevices cracked and crumbled.
They were once anything but brittle,
covered only by skin yet to be bruised,
backs yet to be battered,
blood yet to be spilled,
faces yet to witness the history yet to be written.

I do not believe we are supposed to eat bones,
but we break them down into shreds of paper-back tidbits,
consumable by children during the snack time called 'history class.'
Our teachers are creating cannibals,
consuming culture on textbook platters,
but pay no mind while wearing bone bibs,
they leave out the thickest cuts of meat and just eat the ribs.

History is a living thing, dressed to deceive those who blindly believe.
I remember reading George Washington's claim to fame,
"I did not chop down that cherry tree."
But Mr. President, what about your enemies?
Because every revolution needs people to die for the revolutionaries.
Ain't that a sweet piece of cherry lie pie?

I learned Genghis Khan sure got it on with many women,
but didn't read about Alexander the Great's great ***,
much of it involving a same-gendered mate.
Wait, was that a mixture of patriarchy and hetero-normativity?
Words that weren't worth the pennies to print?
Who hired these fact checkers for the publishing industries?
I'll give you a hint,
Learn who has the most to gain from condemning intellectual content and corrupting it with a corrosive lack of social conscience.
As textbook reps tell professors, "Buy our books with cute new features."  But since when was that what made good teachers?
And so, these chapters get served to us on poo poo platters,
passed off to be refreshing as fresh mint pours in for corporations like Pearson Education.

I surveyed the lay of the land in Egypt,
purveying the literature of pharaohs.
Pyramids meant to portray a portrait of powerful people,
not a foolish riddle.
"Who built them," we ask.
But not of curiosity for whose backs broke building.
Its whose bones mummified beneath are made into mythological creatures along with Sphinx features.

I was taught the Holocaust was a unique horror story,
along with the catch phrase "never again."
Yet those 600 pages neglected to educate about the "re-education campaign" against the Cambodians.
Where was I to learn of the Rwanda civilization's tensions and exterminations?
Perhaps those pages were buried in the mass graves and dirt ditches, deserted and desecrated like the indigenous individuals we now call Native Americans.

Tell me more about art again.
It conveys a message about the historical humans experience,
but I think that message got lost sometime in the Renaissance Period.
When men had beards and wore colorful clothing,
but now that is either unprofessional or deemed gay as a bad thing.
When women were depicted full-bodied as that meant social status,
but now they are painted in photo shop with air brushes and slimmed slick.
We've created a glorious new empire of gastrointestinal bypass Groupons, and have either **** out or surgically removed all the bones we swallowed to get here... So, who's ready for lunch?

Out of Place
Date Unknown

I once got swept up in a tornado and landed in a pretty place.
There were trees along the sidewalks and bike paths on the roads.
The people looked like flowers, all their petals in full bloom.
But once I got a closer look, the perfect hair and perfect teeth didn't look quite as pretty underneath.

Smirks and Sperries couldn't hide the scary scars
of people who put so much effort into hiding who they really are.
The world map wall decor marked with push pins of places traveled,
at first glance appeared like a fairy tale, but slowly became unraveled.
You see, these things were shallow.

My steps couldn't be traced, so instead I tried to recreate.
By the time winds subsided my thoughts had become divided.
Too late to second guess, take a chance, change my fate.
The decision had already been made.
When you land in a foreign space
sometimes its natural to feel out of place.

Written on 11/20/2017

That awkward moment when someone flirts with you on a dating app and says "I like that you look masculine."

You see,
I never saw masculinity as a part of me.

My identity was always flamboyant,
wearing pink shirts and sashes,
crop tops with styling gelled eyelashes,
sparkling headbands and dazzling bandannas,
snapback hats featuring giant bananas,
I dressed with the raging flamboyance of flamingos!
Sporting a certain type of femininity that only a gay man knows.

All the trimming and cutting, and shaving and nairing,
for hours,
as time and body hair intertwined in the showers,
washed masculinity off my body down the drain,
Experienced electrolysis burns, but the pain
had infected my thoughts,
like each hair is unnatural.  

Purge it all,
Scorch and torch it all,
Leave nothing at all!
No trace
of evolution's flawed attempt to grace
me with an adaptive advantage to take on the world's harsh climate.  
I admit,
this hair entangles me and strangles me,
it also oozes out of me like pimples from a pore,
a ***** to testosterone,
poor me - a victim of nature's masculinity.
What a hairy situation I've gotten myself in.

--

Femininity.
Its bestowed upon me by society.
When I sashay or say hey gurl hey,
society recognizes these things as girly and gay,
not a very masculine way to walk or talk.  

Stereotypes about *** and gender are so easily manipulated.
Like a circus performer on the tight rope,
the suspense keeps people wondering where will I fall?

But hold me under a microscope and you will see it all,
a million molecules that makeup my femininity.
I wear skinny jeans and tank tops,
then get complimented on them by dude bros,
like yo that's tight- where'd you get it boss?

I bought it in the girl's section at Ross.

My toe nails painted and displayed for public view,
flip flops emboldened with matching turquoise hues,
Femininity is worn on me like a fabulous armor plate.

--

Fast forward to a fateful date during No-Shave November.
I remember,
growing out my ****** hair for the very first time,
I wore it like a mask,
portraying a fictional character who was masc-uline.
Bathing in manliness at this masquerade.
It was through this charade,
that I grew
... temporary happiness for me from all of you.

The compliments they poured in.
My once smooth canvas of a face,
waiting to be crafted into the Mona Lisa,
had been turned into an artistic masterpiece,
'Gay Man with Amnesia',
of who he used to be.
A painting of someone society wanted,
someone whose masculinity was outwardly flaunted.
But inside, I felt taunted,
each time they complimented
me and my newfound masculinity.

--

Then, it happened on Grindr,
a gay dating app.
This masculine mishap.

A stranger's message read, "I like that you look masculine."
It sounded even stranger in my head.
Their profile description read,

"Masc 4 Masc
Masculine man seeking other masculine men to hangout with."

That's when I felt it.
My mask had made me masc.

This particularly manic morning brought me to ask
myself in the bathroom mirror,
"Who the hell am I looking at?"

In sheer terror, I teared-up,
scanned the portrait of 'Gay Man with Amnesia',
and then decided to tear it up!

I grabbed my electric razor,
grum grum grummm
as these blades grazed my face and chin,
I was offered sweet, soft, porcelain skin - my absolution.

pause

heh heh
When I came to and snapped out of the amnesia,
eager to see results of this restorative procedure,
the mirror was fogged with steam and slop.

I tried logging in to my laptop's webcam,  
for naught.  
The ****** recognition feature -- didn't recognize me
... but finally, I did.

Once again, I see the man behind the masc-ulinity.

3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)

Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.

Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ******.
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.

You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.

So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.  

Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.  

They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.  

They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.  

They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.  

They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.  

They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean.


In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.  

They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!


I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.  

And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.  


I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!  

I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.

Sharing Hate Poem
September 4, 2009 (I recently found this poem I wrote years ago)

Trigger Warning - Abuse

Sharing Hate

He keeps me locked up in this room daily.
He calls me ugly, then starts to beat me.
My bruised and battered body lays there numb.
I think, "Don't worry, help will one day come."

He took my teddy; it was my mommie's.
The other girls here look just like zombies.
Dad always said, "Find the silver lining."
But the rare ray of light's all I'm finding.

He told me, "Tomorrow you'll be famous."
I asked, "Why do you blame your hate on us?"
He said, "You don't get it... I'm just like you."
"When I was little, I got abused too."

Frozen Heart Poem
10/22/2015

What's a winter without withering?
What's a winter without solitude?
What's a winter without higher gas bills to heat the apartment,
because without you in bed I lost my natural heater?
What's a winter without a frozen heart?

Lovely Petals Burst Poem
3/10/15

Why do we tears petals off of flowers and contemplate love?
He loves me.

Why do we tear clothes off of strangers and contemplate love?
He loves me not.

Why do we tear into lobsters and steaks over candlelight and cloth and contemplate love?
He loves me.

Why do we tear out our hearts to expose them and interrogate them and contemplate love?
He loves me not.

I guess when we think about love, it becomes a destructive force.
Sometimes we throw our hearts like emotionally explosive hand grenades, filled with blood,
these lovely petals are ready to burst,
and I'll get damaged first.

Fears for Forever Poem
5/19/2015

What could happen if we lost our fears and let love in?

It would just take a moment to gaze into your eyes
and know I'd have a place to rest my own as long as you look back.

It would just take a second to stare and know how deep
our feelings could impair our thoughts or any logic,
thinking this could turn out so bad, but right now hearts pumping,
blood running through our veins,
my thoughts become overcome by feelings,
and I think I've turned a little insane.

It would just take a minute to comprehend
but it would be 59 too late.
Because from the first count poison is consumed,
you've become another victim.
You've gone from new to used.

It would just take an hour to kindle our spark
into a full force inferno.
Temperature hot enough to set this bed on fire
and combustion would blow up the whole **** building.
But not before we both explode together.

I couldn't imagine what harm letting love in for 24 hours would do.
but now that I know, I'd do it, I'd do, I'd do it all night with you.
Let love in, shut the blinds, and seal the door, locked airtight.
I'd let our love destroy everything in sight.
Tell myself everything will be alright,
if I'd just have you to hold me through this tragic plight.

... I guess this is why fears exist
to keep love out of mind, out of life.
Something to be scared of,
sometimes so wrong, it should be left when you take a right
step in the opposite direction.

So turn and face the fears and feel afraid.
Don't you know what would happen if you allowed yourself to stay?
if you let love in, even just for a moment?

Then walk away and say,
goodbye my... almost lover.

10 Word Poem
5/3/2015

Awake at 4am, you're in my head - away from bed.

Haunted Poem
11/10/2014

Sometimes you feel haunted by the past,
and sometimes you feel haunted by the present.
... Neither are very easy to escape.

Wind Howl Poem
9/24/2014

"Why does the wind howl?"
I think it has lost its voice.
Now only able to summon screeching sounds like scratches,
clawing their way up from a wispy throat.

"Why does the wind howl?"
I found myself asking this unusual question,
for the second time this week.

I think it has found a reason to blow breeze with such brutal force.
Breaking silence found in strange places it visits,
not wanting to whisper - the wind would rather howl.
Its presence must be known.

... Wouldn't you want to howl, too?

All I've Got is Maybe, if I Ain't Got You Babe Poem
9/16/2014

Maybe you spend your Sunday afternoons with a smile.
Maybe you take an extra hour to get out of bed in the morning.
Maybe you brush your teeth and put your toothbrush back down into that 4-slotted holder that just seems to look more full with a 2nd brush.
Maybe you go grocery shop once every few weeks to buy romantic things like checkered tablecloths, fresh flowers, and scented candles.
Maybe you run out of **** and condoms more frequently now that you're with him.

Maybe you've forgotten what my laugh sounds like.
Maybe you don't agonize over what outfit to wear out on a Friday night because I'm not around to care anymore.
Maybe you no longer get poems written about you, not that you ever knew.
Maybe now there aren't consequences for forgetting to text back within 2 days to messages like, "how are you, wanna grab a bite to eat?"
Maybe you don't miss swimming around the pool at 3am talking reminiscing about each other's past we didn't get to be a part of.

Maybe you could have spent a week this winter sick in bed and had me bring you soup after I finished studying.  
I'd tell you I bought it with a coupon and that the old-fashioned restaurant owner asked again if you were my brother or cousin because he didn't want to think you were my lover,
and of course you would laugh and laugh then cough and sneeze.

Maybe by now you would have formed a permanent imprint in the left side of my king-size mattress,
and picked out your favorite 5 pillows of the 15, rarely used - they look so dormant in that vacant lonely left side of my bed,
as if it had a wormhole that made it access:
a cold, limitless blackhole in outerspace.  

Maybe you wouldn't have kept using,
and felt like you needed to move to New York to escape.  
Instead you could have fled into my eyes,
that they say are the portal to the soul,
and let them gaze into yours as you'd make a steady embark to intertwine.

Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to immerse myself in academic studies and drinking at bars to keep as busy as possible,
because the one moment I allow myself to watch a romantic movie on Netflix,
I know I'll need to eat sodium-laden Chinese food to help me retain water so that I don't cry myself to sleep over you.

Maybe I wouldn't have had to bear my **** soul in front of an audience of about 35 people,
sharing the tragic afterthought of you in poetry form.

Maybe by now I would have figured out that...
Maybe you don't think about what maybe you could have had,
if maybe I could have had you babe.

Skinny *** Poem
(8/11/2014)

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
They picture perfect future families with puppies and kittens,
but for me something was missing.
I just wanted to be happy.
Maybe my vision wasn't so great though,
because 'happy' looked like it had 6 letters to me, and spelled 'skinny.'

People used to throw bricks at my glass house.
Shouting that I’d be skinny enough to slip through cracks.
Cracks of life,
cracks of struggle and strife,
cracks of everything not nice.
They'd tease me and say I looked like I smoked crack,
when I'd lose weight,
I'd gain it all back,
in the form of their extra hate.

But I didn't feel skinny on the inside.
Although I had skinny bones and skinny skin,
brittle enough to break within.
Under the pain of that pang
as their bricks shattered my glass house.

Tell me, have you ever been afraid of words?
Thoughts can be terrifying but once turned to spoken word,
that in turn will turn to shouted word,
that in turn will turn to incoherent nonsense.
Which starts a sensation of ear drums ripping,
being sawed in half immediately,
no time spent ticking,
by shrill shrieks and violent vocalizations.

As if a sound wave could burst your body parts faster,
no, more efficiently than a barrage of fists.
Because it will know exactly where to strike,
in fact, it will sneak through your solid surface,
into every single crevice,
knowing where the best place to hurt is.

All it takes is a whisper strategically said in your ear,
'skinny.' 'skinny.'  'skinny.'
I could feel it float away from me,
carried off by the wind.
As if a sound wave could carry an army of statements,
piled up and armed with bayonets of every decibel level,
ready and willing to siege each individual joint crack and muscle ache,
being pushed under imposed stiffness.
It will ooze out your pores, as if your fat face was an instrument amplifier.

They thrived on the thrill listening to my shrill shriek.
As I stepped on shards from my shattered glass house,
And stared into the million fractures,
each a broken reflection of the million me’s I could be.
But none of them skinny... enough,
skinny for everybody else,
but never for me.

I’d envision each day, blood drops staining my glass carpet.
Each ounce of that luscious red,
each day left my body filled with an ounce less of dread.
An ounce less to fit into a size small shirt,
and 30 inch waist Skinny jean.
My body became my own private ****** machine.

Every kid wants to be something when they grow up.
I just wanted to be happy, I mean skinny.

The Rules of Online Dating Poem
(8/5/2014)

Rules start the moment we decide to do online dating.
You can't choose Christian Mingle, because things get too spicy there.
You can't choose JDate, because they all want to sign pre-nup's.
You can't choose Plenty of Fish, because who wants to date a fish?
... I mean, I'm pretty sure that's illegal in most countries.
Grindr is great, but we're talking about the rules of online dating... Dating.

Now, OkCupid is where it's at.
Okay see here, you need a username.
Something quirky.  How about 'Quirky?'
Oh, that's taken, so add numbers!
The website suggested 'Quirky 69' ... okay, maybe no numbers.
Quirky_Cat, because everything on the internet is better with cats.

Let's move on to selecting several profile pictures.
Dust off your digital archives, and find one from that time you tanned.
Ever take a funny photo eating food?  Perfect, feed it to your fans.
Is it Halloween?  Because I'm thinking Headless Torsoooo!!!
Annnnd for good measure, let me take a selfie.

The hardest part is answering the match-making questions.
My soul is searching for its soul mate, and there can only be one.
It's like the heart hunger games.  
Who can shoot their compliments with the precision of a bow and arrow,
right through the wall of cats I've accumulated from being single so long?
The first one to make me feel so alive I want to die,
but not before devouring a pint of ice cream, wins!!

SO ANSWER THESE CRUCIAL QUESTIONS:
1, Is astrological sign important to you in a match?
YOU BETTER NOT BE A GEMINI
2. Are you a cat person or a dog person?
I DON'T DATE CAT-DOG HYBRID PEOPLE, JUST BE A PERSON PLZ
3. If you turn a left-handed glove inside out, it fits?
MY ****
4. Would you be willing to meet someone from OkCupid in person?
IF YOU ANSWER NO, *** ARE YOU DOING HERE
That concludes today's question answering.  
Stay tuned for rules on writing the self-summary.

Rule #1 - Bang your head on the keyboard for 12 minutes.
This is a mandatory, required start to every OkCupid profile.
Rule #2 - Use a lot of cliches
Don't worry if you don't know any, just copy some from someone else.
Rule #3 - Say you are bad at writing self-summaries in your self-summary
That's a good one.
Rule #4 - Say what you are good at... which duh, is your writing skills.
I mean you have a liberal arts degree after all.
Rule #5 - Tell them you are a real person, not fake.
Some folks need to hear this to get over the imaginary people they dated.

Rules require structure, and structure is built by bullet point lists.
So first bullet point, favorite books:
- Quickly go find the titles of everything you had to read in high school.
Second bullet point, favorite movies, and variety is key here:  
- Include musicals, rom coms, at least one low-budget indie film,
    a foreign film or two, and throw in a few Disney flicks for good measure.
Third bullet point is what will make or break you, music:
- For gay men this will mean you're only allowed to pick female divas, so...
To the tune of 'Kokomo' by The Beach Boys.
There's Britney and Whitney, ooh I wanna take ya,
to Rhianna, Madonna, ooh and then there's Robyn.
But Queen Bey, J. Monae, Miley, and Christina,
Katy Perry, and Coldplay, because they count anyway.
Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher.

Alright alright.  We've had our fun, but now it gets serious.
The profile is going to ask us to advertise ourselves like products.
Of course we are going to comply.
5 foot 6.  145 pounds.  Brown hair, Hazel eyes.
Bi-lingual and knows how to use a tongue.
Annual income?  More like outgo, as in out goes my money.
Do I use drugs?  Only if they're free.
Do I diet?  As in drink diet soda, as opposed to regular?
Slightly hungover on Sundays.
Can send more pictures of cats I wish were my pets, upon request.

Alright, start stalking people for endless hours,
sending messages sporadically.
Good news!  We're ready to do online dating.

But...  what if I don't really know what I want?
Maybe online dating isn't for me.

If Planets were Gay (Star ******) Poem
(8/4/2014)

Stars are ****.
Big hairless ***** dangling from the sky.
That old song sang stars are like pizza pie,
but why oh why can't I,
instead dine tonight on orbs in between the sky's mighty thighs?

The sun could be a lot of fun at the beach, wearing my thong.
I'd let it spin around my orbit ALL YEAR LONG.

And Saturn's rim... I mean ring
is a bootylicious thing.
I'd let it sit on my face,
and eat out that planet's entire outer space.

If Pluto were a planet,
It'd be the Jackson to my Janet,
singing it's Pluto,
Miss Pluto if ya nasty.

Mercury looked fiery hot when we first met,
Things got steamy 'cuz we both got wet.
We wasted no time working up a sweat.

I bet if Venus had a *****,
it would be so big,
it'd have its own solar system!
tee hee hee

But don't get me started with Earth,
that planet's got good girth.
If Earth was gay, you know that Uranus would be like,
"Ohayyy!!
Gurl Galactic Grindr tells me you're in my galaxy,
let's meet in the middle of the Milky Way."

Jupiter is the kinda planet that plays hard to get,
a total tease you'd quickly forget.
Plus he gave me asteroids in my astral ****.

And the Moon?
It makes my whole body swoon.
The only problem,
thisssss planet's a bottommmmm!

Neptune is in the closet,
but let's be real,
every planet and their comet knows it.

Nobody plays with Mars,
because he lives too far,
and has no apartment, job, or car.

But who am I kidding?
If Planets were Gay,
I'd Star **** 'em all any day.

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.

Condolence Cards Poem (Spoken Word)
5/19/2014

Congratulations: On landing your dream job!
Congratulations: On buying your first house!
Congratulations: It's a beautiful baby you brought into this world!
Congratulations: Marriage is so monumental, see you at the wedding!
Condolences.

Can you measure the amount of acknowledgements we forfeit,
to cheap card stock and cheesy colorful cutouts?  
Like each event in life is a round in sports,
requiring an announcer to stand on the edge of the arena,
shouting the play by play.  

We play pretend that cards can say what we feel.  
But I feel like unless if those purple, blue, vanilla,
or pink for valentine's and mother's day envelopes
can enclose an entire paperback novel,
I know that my feelings can't possibly be enclosed inside.  
As if feelings could surmount to anything less than a lifetime of experience.  

For when has then phrase, "I love you" ever conveyed the entire message intended, but without the soft gestures accompanying it, or perhaps the longing gaze of eyes and 'I Do's' entrenched in one another.  
For when has the phrase, "I miss you" offered up the subtleties of staring out your window on rainy day, listening to piano symphonies sinking into the sofa sipping away sorrows on wine?
For when has the phrase, "I am sorry for your loss" ever actually meant sorry, as if it was you who were the perpetrator of a ****** and were seeking exoneration through a sorry excuse of a phrase uttered by people who just don't quite understand the meaning of the term 'sorry.'
Condolences.

I stare at the Hallmark Sea in front of me and I wonder.  Are life's memorable moments so easily categorized?  Into baby showers, bar-mitzvahs, and birthdays?
What about cards just for barbecues with random neighbors?
About cards just for breaking your precious vase?
Cards just for being a ***** the other day?
Just for breakfast you made me in bed?
For binge-ing on alcohol with me and not leaving me almost dead?
What about cards just for thanking you for buying me a stupid ******* card?

Tell me where is the corporate branding on cards for being broke?
On cards for broken homes?
On cards for being homeless?
On cards for getting cancer?
On cards for cutting?
On cards for self-loathing and depreciation?
What about cards for being in the moment or sharing a cup of coffee?
Instead what we get is the catch-all, Condolence Cards.

Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy
Condolences - a person who is suffering
Condolences - sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  


I didn't realize most people's sympathy being expressed equated to blank stares like paper on paper, means nothing but thin and flimsy papers, feelings forfeited, grounded up like big beautiful trees teeming with life, chalked up into tiny pieces of toilet paper for you to wipe your crap on, leaving behind a Hallmark - Condolence Card.

That's Grass Poem
5/16/2014

If you think about it hard enough, you can feel the life tingling on tips of grass.  As if they are blades true to their name, yearning to clash against your soft skin soaked in the sun's sweat.  The thrill of the fight when you're feeling alive.  That's grass.

Getting chopped up into tiny pieces by the violent churning grummm grummm grummm of a mechanical ****** machine, the lawnmower.  Spurting out what's left, the ruins of a once emerald empire, into twisty bendy bits thrown to the fierce winds, allowed to dissipate into dust at dusk.

Who thought time could pass without you?  That's grass.

I went to the park the other day and guess what I saw?
Grass.  But on top of it.  There were picnic tables adorned with checkered table cloths, and I could just smell the waft of hot dogs, hamburgers, and acidic pickles.  But this is not about what I saw.  Not what I smelled, nor the fabricated memory I longed for as the moment fleeted, like a photograph fade out at the movie credits, when the characters' lives become just what they always were - figments of your imagination, allowed to live on the big screen for just a brief moment of viewing pleasure.  

I saw a family of four.  Picturesque, painting the scene one would like to see.  A father, mother, and two children.  Sons of separate ages.  Laughing, that laughter.  If I could just capture one of their smiles and keep it in a jar, I wouldn't have to ever go very far to feel happy.  And who knows if they went home later that day and cursed each other, or pulled out their phones at the dinner table, completely ignoring the company of one another.  Maybe, just maybe they hated each other with all the scathing loath one's own family can create.  But, they had the option.  They could grow together.  That's grass.

A. They had the ability to knock on your door and be told you're too busy to talk.  B. They had the ability to call you and let it ring to voicemail.  C. That older son had the ability to sneak out of the house late at night and wonder if you've noticed and been worried.  D. The younger son had the ability to have you drive him in your car and receive whatever wisdom you'd choose to share, even if it's only a belch or burp and then have a nice day school.  E. The mother, she had the ability to be a human being with you and live life happily, not just a mom, but a partner in love and life.  

W. The ability to see your smile at the law school acceptance letter.
C. The ability to ask you for a cash loan when times were tough.
M. The ability to watch sci-fi movies with you in bed and eat Chinese food.
A.B.C. The ability to share life's monumental moments with you, like learning the alphabet.

Those sons, they had the ability to fight with you and refuse your request to pass the tv remote from across the room when you were sitting down comfortable, and they were standing up.  Something so shallow and stupid,  not giving a ****. not knowing that at a few minutes before midnight that Christmas Eve... you would leave.  Is this what grass is supposed to be?  A ****** broken down family.

I saw grass this Father's Day.  It looked a bit overgrown, but 9 years can do that I guess.  It's almost gotten hard to read that plaque on the ground, but I know it still says Michael, father, husband, survived by sons and loving wife, now lost to the grass.

Who thought time could pass without you, and I could continue to grow.
But that's grass.

Grow Old Poem (Spoken Word)
5/15/2014

I want my heart to drop at least one more time before I die.
If it can tingle with that sensational micro shock wave,
feel it pulse fast through arteries and veins,
pumping ever so slowly, yet surely,
I can know that I am living in my last moments of being alive.

The thought never struck me that I could someday die of old age.
When the world out there is as scary as ours was,
one learns to not be afraid of what the future brings,
but instead of what's beyond the window in the present.
What malice is awaiting your dim-witted arrival out the door this morning?

Aging is the reason a Hell doesn't need to exist.
It can make a common theme among all of Dante's burning infernos.
How cruel is it to find things you love and ignite passions,
only to watch those things flicked off like fleas,
faltering into willowy whisps,
small pathetic pitter pats fluttering away into dust.

I did it right though, you know.
Growing old.
I did it by growing, after all, and not shrinking.
Step by step, things got harder, but in turn became more enjoyable.
My only wish now is to ask my 22 year old self some questions.

Why didn't you go to senior year prom?
Even though you didn't have a date, it would have been fun,
you and I both know it!

Why did you spend so much time obsessing over when you would lose your virginity when there were so many better firsts to be taken?

Why did you refuse to date for long periods of time,
closing off your heart as if falling in and out of love was like a fatal fall off a cliff.

Why did you care about little old me,
trying to make plans for the future, without realizing I could care for myself when it got to that point?

Why did you lie at your high school reunion as if anyone's opinion mattered if it wasn't something positive or interesting?

Why didn't you take better care of your body.
I know it's a low blow, but I'm not exactly a fan of my brittle skin, a little lotion daily could have gone a long way.

It's funny that these are the things I think of today.
That I remember out of all the moments, these few.
Why are you listening to me talk and answering these silly questions?

Go forth into the hustle and bustle of life,
Be enthralled in its tendrils,
letting its life force seep through your veins like a brilliant canal system.
Don't shrink as you age,
My advice to you is to Grow Old.

Building Blocks (Spoken Word Poem)
5/15/2014

I played with legos when I was young.
What I didn't know was the value of those building blocks.
Putting tiny pieces of plastic together,
all different shapes, sizes, and colors.

For what?
For fun?
For structure?
For a challenge?
Because my mom told me to keep busy?
Or because that was how legos were supposed to work - together.

As I grew up, I gradually upgraded.
My legos got traded in for classmates,
for co-workers.
for bar buddies,
and even for the occasional stranger at the mall or movie theater.

They started telling their own stories:
About their first day at lego high school and making new friends.
About falling in love with their first lego boyfriend.
About going to lego prom and putting the pieces together at the after-party, if you know what I mean.
About getting dumped, but then landing their first job at the lego factory.
About shedding priceless limited edition lego tears, on stressful days.
About going through struggles where all they could do is pray to lego God.
About dreams of a nice big lego house with lego children someday.
About lego suicides, resulting from bullying in every worst kind of way.

Eventually it felt like I had opened up an expert level pack,
containing a variety so vast that I never would have guessed anybody could piece them all together.

These building blocks started to feel pretty heavy,
like bricks building a house,
I could only carry a couple in a fistful at a time.
Except they've been worn down from a life full of misuse.
Their colors faded,
edges jaded,
teeth serrated,
like an adapted mechanism for survival.
And what's worse - no mortar to piece them together.
because it all got burnt up.
A casualty of angry tempers' crossfire.
The constant collisions of verbal bullets bullying the building blocks,
bulldozing them over.
With the strength of slurs,
societies seems to blur,
all the inadequacies faced.

Without solidarity to support,
these building blocks are beginning to contemplate giving up.
But Stop!
But I don't like that.
I'll shout, "Hey little legos, remember the plan?
We should work together with your manual instructions in hand.
You were built with a scheme to be put together.
So in unison you can create an amazing structure to cherish forever."

Building blocks are resilient anyways.
Remember that time you left a lego alone?
Detached from its peers,
abandoned out on the carpet,
without the safety of its pre-fab box home?
Well the lego didn't seem to mind, I mean it turned out just fine.

Remember when you stepped on that seemingly small, insignificant lego?
Yeah, don't step on legos.
I'm sure you remember how much that ******* hurt your foot.

Meaningless *** Poem
5/4/2014

Set your gaze upon the man across the bar.
Watch him as he casually drinks a beer and laughs with his friends.
Gossiping about past drunken nights' ends.
Ends that were met with a warm welcome's comfort.
Ends that involved taking a woman to bed without much effort.

How many do you think that man slept with in high school?
A mindless **** count as if they were tools,
willing to be wielded and fooled.
willing to be picked up and ******,
in the back of his ****** '04 pickup truck.

Maybe he's had at least one meaningless ***** with that **** of his.
So tell me this.
Please, why is the *** I have meaningful to him?
If his *** is shallow, then why does mine fill his hatred to the brim?

What's worse is the way he claims to 'know.'
The signs I give off that are guaranteed to show.

1. I wear tight underwear.
2. Their color scheme has a brightly colored flare.
3. I sit with my legs crossed in a chair.
4. That tells him I want it down there.
3. I get up and walk to the bathroom with a sway,
2. No straight man would dare do that.
1. ****** Marys and Long Islands are dead give-a-ways,
0. I held hands with a man walking into the bar.

But the same as him,
I could take someone home and forget their name.
I could gloat about it to friends the next night out for two minutes' fame.
I could go on with what to him could be an ordinary day.
But because it's me, it's more meaningful to him.
Because I am gay.

Let's have a toast for the ******* as Kanye once said.
Let's have a toast for homophobes who take women meaninglessly to bed.
meanwhile my meaningless *** only finds meaning in their heads.

Fearing Changes Poem
5/3/2014

I want a divorce from my feelings.
Lately I've been thinking,
about changing,
about becoming,
someone really bright,
burning full of wonder and life,
amazed by the world.

I don't want to grow into jaded angst,
taking life's anger inducing tragic bait.

I need to shower myself in streams of light,
bringing in a brightness that stirs crazy,
ushering in  a fierce ***** that can't be tamed.

I need to plunge headfirst into a fist full of firsts,
breaking through boundaries yet to be crossed,
ultimately setting the stage for my future in a neat new place.

It's these changes that I fear.
It's these changes that I think will become me.
It's these changes that I don't want to absorb me,
and take away my favorite pieces of person-hood.

Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #5
4/28/2014

Fat giraffe.
You shouldn't feel like you're a social gaffe.
I mean, sure, you could use some definition on your bloated calfs.
They look like cankles.
But there's nothing wrong with that.
I bet you could still support me if I rode on your back.
Besides, I don't think eating too many leaves can give you a heart attack?
And if it does, then no worries.
At least you ate a lot and got to take the biggest best craps.
Fat giraffe.

Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #4 Poem
4/28/2014

The weight of air.
As it blows through your hair.
******* out moisture with its warm whispy touch.
But can it hold very much?
Without the ability to clutch.
For if something needs to be so small.
To be carried by the wind.
Then is it possible for air to weigh anything at all?

Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #3 Poem
4/28/2014

Oh mailbox.
If only you had a voicebox.
You could bark like a dog.
Scare off that suspicious mailman named Bob.
Or yell at the kids playing in my yard.
You wouldn't have to try very hard.
To be good at your job.
Because I'd stop by to say hello everyday.
Just to know that I could receive my new news.
In a more interesting kind of way.
Oh mailbox, the things you would say.

Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #2 Poem
4/28/2014

The under-side of a butterfly's wing.
Is an under-appreciated thing.
Untouched and mostly unseen.
It doesn't require cheap beauty tricks like sunlight shining.
The hard effort of flapping.
Creates a constant working test.
But if I were ever to offer a sweet soft caress.
I think it would be worth it.
To give the under-side of a butterfly's wing a rest.

Things That Don't Typically Evoke Poetry #1 Poem
4/28/2014

Fruit smoothie.
Never thought I'd see you featured in a movie.
One drink of you gets my stomach feeling woozy.
But you're juicy.
Might even taste a bit better when I'm losing.
My sense of taste.
Because I snuck some ***** in.
While near Bahamas cruising.
With fruit smoothie.

Up Late but not Contemplating Poem
4/27/2014

1am to 3am
Refusal to endorse the typical behavior one might partake in at this time.
Still awake, but feeling trapped by sleep's scheme.
It's like we are forced to close our eyes each night and open come morning.
But what if I want to resist?

3am to 5am.
These are the best a 24 hour period can hold.
Magical things happen when you lose your will to sleep.
You realize you have been living with eyes wide open, constantly asleep.
That only when you deny your eyelids their longing kiss,
will you truly fall awake.

5am to 7am.
You have planned out most of your day tomorrow.
Eagerly awaiting a trip to your favorite early morning cafe or diner.
What a great feeling to be awake when you really shouldn't be.
It's a small taste of nostalgia from grabbing cookies out of the forbidden jar.
You get a sense of content as you let the remaining hours of the night drift.
Think about the most amazing fresh shower in a couple hours.

7am to 9am
Living in the moment with just yourself.
It is great to know the world exists not in your bedroom,
but for these few hours,
you were able to block it out.
You are up late but not contemplating.

(Not really a poem, but I wanted to share).

Wynn’s Quarter-life Manifesto
4/27/2014 at 12:25am (post midnight)

First Section – Regrets:  These are things to learn from in the future.
. I regret expecting myself to understand the deeper meaning behind all of life’s recent transitions.
. I regret not spending more time appreciating nature without technology.
. I regret putting awful unhealthy foods into my body too often.
. I regret obsessing over the way my body looks too often instead of listening to how it feels.
. I regret abandoning most of my volunteer work and attending less social activism events.
. I regret getting an industrial ear piercing.
. I regret taking it out within just a few months, even more.
. I regret not overcoming my fear of driving entirely yet, but it is in progress.
. I regret spending so much money on late night drinking at bars trying to meet strangers, instead of spending it doing more fun things with friends.

Second Section – Reliefs:  These are things to celebrate I have done.
. I am relieved I let love walk out of the door, not once, but twice - I can wait until the time is right.
. I am relieved I was accepted to law school and a PhD program with great scholarships to boot.
. I am relieved my family honestly tries to embrace things which make me different or less relate-able to.
. I am relieved I have accepted that *** can be an ordinary thing and should not be feared.
. I am relieved that I choose to value it regardless and still maintain some of my old-fashioned values.
. I am relieved that it took me 22 years on this planet to become slightly jaded – longer than most.
. I am relieved I am capable of change and adapting to difficulties, even if those changes confuse me.

Third Section – Reality: These are things I need to be more realistic and grounded about.
. Life goes on no matter how lonely you get or how much you want to be in a relationship.
. If I want to achieve difficult goals, they require a few things in addition to harder effort, including more sleep, effective stress-coping strategies, positive empowerment, and breaks – remembering to laugh.
. Communication requires listening and so in order to be a better friend it is important to listen more.
. Don’t be that person who always complains.  A lot of people are really jealous of you for their reasons.
. Say hello to people, even strangers, and smile – how they’re feeling today is important.
. Not everything is about you.

Fourth Section – Relish:  These are things to sincerely appreciate.
. Relish friendships, please – they can come and go so appreciate them for what they’re worth.
. Relish relish, ketchup, mustard, mayo, and even the horseradish – variety is a great thing.
. Relish a calm night by yourself finding new music.
. Relish when you discover interesting things about yourself you’d yet to learn.
. Relish material things you own like a bed, more than one pillow or a tv maybe, a closet with clothes.
. Relish being born as who you were.
. Relish having become who you are today.
. Relish your willingness and opportunity to work towards who you want to be.

Realization Alliteration Poem
4/23/2013

Radical reforms
Revealed and revered
Reveled in without reserve
Reject rest until wrongs righted
Resistance looks radiant red like radishes
Recently reequipped with righteousness reacting like radiation
Rowdy crowds race like rabbits to meeting rooms
Rain and rapiers can't quell rampaging rallies without recourse
Reserves have been replicated, ready to razzle and rebuke, revenge
Reclaim rusted roofs of the ruins, wrecked in rural rubble's roots
Reality's reign can't be reversed so remember it, refuse to relive it
Run from its reach, relying on the rare reward you've received, a refuge
Recognize that regimes rotate routinely like roadkill riding on rail-cars drinking with rancid rats
Reach for the receiver, become a redeemer, referee your own rehab, require resolute ripples - realization.

Watch the Lighthouse Poem
4/21/2014

What good is a lighthouse?
A stable structure, sure.

Watch it stand on the edge of a ruthless sea,
Watch it house a five person family,
Watch it guide a ship full of sailors to shore,
Watch it flash light at some stars, as if the night sky needed any more.

Watch what a lighthouse really does.
What purpose is it for?

Watch it illuminate humankind's' disgrace,
juxtaposed against the vast empty space.
Watch it carve a cliff-sized hole into nature's soul,
pretend it belongs, as if Earth's man-made face should be so dull.
Watch it stare blankly at a gentle sea,
under false belief that what's underneath is understandable by we.

Watch how a lighthouse thinks it guides those lost at sea.
Watch how a lighthouse creates more darkness than anything.
Watch how a lighthouse sheathed in shade and ice will crumble eventually.
Watch how a lighthouse means absolutely nothing to me.

Speak Power to Truth, but watch out for Lie Poem
3/01/2014

Sometimes we are afraid to speak Truth to Power.
Have you ever heard that phrase uttered
by some token card pushing sack of potatoes?

I want to know :
Who are these Truth and Power characters?
Why are we afraid to speak with them?

Fear not, I'll break it down,

I met Truth in 8th grade,
watched friends steal candy from a store,
then they shouted, "Wynn go take some more."
Egging on persistent - I couldn't ignore.
I snuck the snack in to my pocket,
pretended I dropped it.
left enough change on the counter
to pay for my friends and more,
high hived my friend Truth as I walked out the door.

I met Power high up in a tower
of offices.
That's right, Power is a bureaucrat who stamps a time clock.
Every single weekday,
as a weak single,
like you and me, maybe.
Power worked for my university
signed my paychecks,
and didn't like me at all.
Power threw a power trip, extorted, blackmailed me and all,
I got was secret meetings behind closed doors,
Power threw me out
said Wynn we don't need you anymore.

I met Truth a 2nd time when I fell in love
and had Truth tell me, Wynn admit it,
this isn't the stranger you've been dreaming of.
But I didn't follow Truth's advice,
Instead I listened to Lie,
and continued to suffer
until emotionally I wanted to die.

Lie, is another character you will tend to get involved with.
Each day in a mirror Lie reviews your clothes,
whispers in your ear you should starve,
need to become beautiful,
to lose weight,
and change french fries for grapes.
Lie wears a funny suit and shows up at your door,
will try to sell you **** on silver platters,
as if you needed anymore,

Power came again to me,
at a protest in the mall,
said freeze, put your hands in the air,
don't move, stay where you are.
Power wields handcuffs,
forged from metal, emotions, or money.
Power is tall and attractive.
Can be so friendly, sweet like honey.
Power is secretly a business partner of everyone in your life.
Power will be there for those who afford to buy its might.

Lie is the friend who your parents say you should kick out of your house,
but instead you awkwardly end up inviting to dinner.
Lie timed their visit strategically.
To dine at your table for free.
(Lie doesn't identify with gender pronouns by the way).

So speak Power to Truth, but watch out for Lie,
because Truth needs Power most,
and Lie will try to hide,
not caring for reasons why.

My Lighthouse Poem
4/4/2014

You make my toes tingle,
I never noticed them before.
You're like my hit single,
in my mind every time I walk out the door,
to start my day.
You brighten my soul
and one touch makes me feel a million different ways.
One more positive than the other,
but each heading in the same right direction,
to you.

I can't wait to trace every single millimeter of your body,
like I am on a treasure hunt.
And all I can find at each spot I come into contact with is golden beauty.

Your words are pure and unadulterated,
like the low sodium soy sauce and fresh ginger with sushi.
Ooo, there's just something in your smile,
and no it's not spinach.
It's a reflection of a happier me,
knowing that I could be with you and be happy.

I'll call you my lighthouse,
and nobody will understand.
They'll think I was a lost ship,
and that you helped me reach the sand.

Really it's because you are a stable structure,
out at an emotional sea in a dark sky night.
Really it is because none of the others compare,
to your special kind of shine bright,
with that light,
that I'm fixated on.

On our first date we played bingo and shuffleboard.
On our second date, sushi and tarot cards.
Who knows what crazy adventures any future dates will be,
but who really cares when they include you and me?
Yeah, that's right, it's enough with just you and me,
my lighthouse.

Feelings Travel Poem
3/15/2014

flying creatures
end up crawling in your sneakers
when they lose their will to fly
traverse among the clouds over continents
but those that swim are worse.

swimming creatures
they'll weave through your dreams
leave an island to be lost at sea
thinking you can't see
what's under the murky emotional water.

walking creatures
take their time on the gravel and grass
surprisingly harder to find
like little fuzzy things,
granule grains engrained in my eye sockets.
small enough you can fit a million of 'em in your pockets,
ready to reveal whenever.

What do the flying creatures, walking, or swimming
all have in common with me?
That they carry their feelings inside tiny hearts beating
and their feelings travel all the same.

sometimes feelings fly,
sometimes they swim,
sometimes they lose their will to walk and crawl.

Hear this creatures.
no matter if you're feeling so small,
trapped in between life's walls,
or feeling nothing at all,
those feelings you'll carry at all - times,
Because feelings travel.

You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014

“You are cute.”

No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.

No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.

No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.

No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.

And finally, No.
I’m not ‘****,’ ‘***,’ ‘*****,’ ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or ‘****,’ either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.

Earthquake Poem
3/5/2014

What do you suppose an earthquake does?

Sure, there are the shakes and scares,
Seismic shifts accompanied by tectonic tears.
But ditch this global perspective,
Figure out what rips those ripples, detective.

Let’s see you pound at the ground.
Hit it hard, ‘til you hear a heavy sound.
Is that enough to fissure some asphalt?
Tell me, could you bring this spinning planet to a sudden halt?

I can’t say for sure, what an Earth-quake does.
Though I’ve been a victim,
Earth isn’t where my quake was.
An Earth-less earthquake,
On a planet whose name I’ve learned to forsake.

Wynn’s world wandered ‘round someone else’s orbit:
Drawn to its gravity like grapes grow on a vine;
Brightened by its solar system’s shining smile, so divine;
Emotional tides tugged in and out;
Guided by its mysterious moon’s midnight meandering about.

That’s right – an orbit with its own time flow.
Time that could stomp its heels and steal a spotlight,
Time that could manipulate a moment like jello, mayonnaise, or some other squishy substance,
Time that could crash course, while standing still,
Time that could reveal something you never knew.

What do you suppose an earthquake does?

A quake could be anything that makes you shake.
Think of quaking in fear, as an unknown figure draws near.
Think of a jittery heart, that’s been bit by a bullet.
Internal tears,
think of organs bleeding,
Think of needing,
solid ground,
but falling and time keeps stalling.

When a quiet little quiver promises to deliver,
its slight shock signal straight through the middle.
When a molten magma core fizzes its manic madness,
like a shaken soda.
When an epic eruption carries out its upward excelsior,
Rejecting the spinning without a stop.

Oh, the mountains will tumble,
The hills and valleys, they’ll crumble,
And gurgle in the raging rivers’ rumble,
As volcanoes churn out violent bubbles,
Stirring up all kinds of troubles,
For one person’s personal planet.

For one person’s personal planet,
These violent forces of nature can’t compare to an Earth-quake,
When the ground you stand on begins to break,
When you realize your senseless stability is fake.
When that little quake knocks your Earth awake,
It’s reality coming alive to take, and take, and take,
Because for love, you put everything at stake.

What do you suppose an earthquake does?
I’ll tell you – it leaves a wrecked world with a cracked core and scorched surroundings.
Just because.
Just because, love on Earth always comes with a quiet little quake.

Flavors of Love Please Poem
2/26/2014

I don't want to live in a world without love.

Without cheap dates.
Without wallowing and wine,
wondering where things went wrong.

Without melodrama,
Without attempts to understand,
why we get hurt when we open ourselves up.

Maybe to others,
a world without love
would be alright.

Maybe to others,
they don't need those special feelings,
to be feeling just fine.

But not me, no no.
I need to live in a world with love,
a world with laughter and a world with light.

A world that doesn't forget to include the things,
that aren't quite so nice,
like someone turning away from you,
but you know their ****** expression anyways,
cold as ice.

A world that is harsh and tormenting,
where you can easily retrace the footsteps,
that once held two pairs of feet,
or you can retreat,
but would much rather follow.

I demand to see the stars disappear into sunlight,
trying to decide which option is the better kind of shine bright.
A bold blazing sun, easy to spot in the sky,
or the millions of stars that look like they are struggling to fly.

And I,
don't want to give up on love anymore.
I just needed some time to press my heart's snooze button,
and snore away the hurt.

But now,
I am wide awake and hear my heart's drum beating,
it calls to me at night,
pleading for something it is needing.

The sizzle of eggs I cooked in a pan for breakfast,
with little flecks of salt and pepper,
a slice of butter on some whole-wheat toasted bread.

Together, this breakfast conglomeration,
told me what the point of this poem is.
To live on, without love, is to eat boring eggs.

And I,
would rather live a life filled with hate,
then be stuck eating what is served to me on a plate.

Give me all the flavors of love please.

Young and Naive Poem
2/18/2014

I'm feeling trapped in these walls.
Ready to fall
through the floor.
Don't wanna sleep in my bed no more.
I can't see in the dark,
but unsure - I could feel more secure.
_
I ran home when I was a kid.

You picture a sad child running away from their family.
But I ran home to tear off my clothes.
To stand in the shower and numb my brain
with senseless waste of water.
Drops smashing violently against my face.
Distracted me from the real storm approaching.

If I could wet the air
I draw in for breath,
maybe the heavy gravity of things
would become more apparent.

If those violent water drops soaked into my pores,
maybe they could sink into my thoughts.
If I could do that,
then I could be somewhere else.

I was worried I would have to disappear
from a world that I loved too much.
A world I loved too much
for it to love me back and yet still have me hate it.

I could not accept the things that just could not change.
Luckily, if you want to call it luck,
there was still too much I needed to say,
…. yet too much wanting to remain the same...
And all the same, it's all the same,
just maybe with another name.

Or another person,
and in another year,
their acting will worsen.

For shame I blame.
My steps scorched the Earth,
burning up under the pressure
Of a body bloated heavy with burden.
A ****** buddy without a body - its called a thought that you don’t want.
With the heavy weight, and my boots quake
My resolve, it shakes.
So settle down.

Listen…

The little boy who went running through the streets.
No he was rollerblading.
No it was me, as a child.
I was strolling, so carefree.

A long ago day,
before I became me.
He said, “I resolve to be drug free.”

...
To be so young and naive.

Cyber Bullying Poem
2/6/2014

Let's talk about cyber bullying.
I wonder if you instantly thought,
"Oh gosh this is gonna be intense."
Well maybe, maybe not.

Some forms of bullying aren't intended to be intense.

Sometimes bullying comes from the smallest things you can do to someone.
Sometimes bullying just takes a minute to type and press send.
Sometimes bullying just takes another minute to close your web browser.
Sometimes bullying just takes a third minute to walk away fine.

Bullying is possible in just three minutes:
send a comment to anyone anywhere in the world
ruin their day.
destroy their confidence
personally insult someone you don't know personally
influence their minute, hour, day, week, month,
life, suicide.

But this poem isn't about suicide,
it isn't about life or death.
It is about those small things you say to someone on the internet,
without ever realizing
you are a cyber-bully.

This poem is about the time I met an internet troll.
Someone who says things in chat forums to elicit an elevated response.
I was in middle school, one of three Jewish kids.
I posted on a forum about video games,
and for some reason
another middle schooler on the same forum as me,
somewhere unknown in the world,
posted off topic about how the Holocaust was great for population control.
*******.

This poem is about the messages you get on your dating profile,
that just say "hello" or "hi."
Because you took the time to fill out and divulge personal information,
and the best they could come up with was a measly greeting?
26 letters, 10 numbers, and 46 other keys at your disposal,
with unlimited time
no pressure at all,
but you'll use a hell of a lot more keys when you retaliate to my angry response.
*******.

This poem is about the debates you get into on FB.
someone posts a provocative status about cultural misappropriation
or about how English should be the national language,
and you respond unable to resist,
trying to keep it professional and scholarly,
citing sources doing your thing,
until they make a personal insult,
unrelated to the debate topic,
maybe about your political orientation or religious beliefs.
*******.

This poem is about the person who you were supposed to go on a date with,
but they told you about how they once got upset at their ex,
and posted their photos on Craigslist.
******* and no thank you!

This poem is about the poems that I've posted on my blog,
that someone out there thinks are open to public criticism,
as all art should be they said.
Maybe if I was published and making money, sure?
Maybe if I actually thought your opinion was valuable?
Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a cyber bully.
Spewing your **** like the internet is your personal toilet seat.
*******.

This poem is about the minutiae,
the minutes in which someone can damage you,
because your screen on your computer has no filter,
it won't protect you from the cyber bullies,
who say small comments that make a big impact.

No happy inspirational ending,
other than that I hope they read this poem on the internet,
and maybe feel a little bullied themselves.

Wanted Ad Poem
1/31/2014

I've decided enough is enough.
I'm putting out an advertisement on every dating website,
It will read at the top:
Wanted

Man or Woman,
scratch that binary.
Regardless of gender or sexuality,
Seeking a person who can communicate.
Someone who chooses words wisely
and even better knows how to use them,
not to wound you, but to woo you.

Physical features need not apply
all stripes, squares, and bulges of variety are acceptable,
as long as they limit their smoking to while drinking,
I can't stand a cigarette smell on furniture in the house.
That was a simple request.

Maybe I should ask for something in greater detail.
Must appreciate new experiences,
whether of the culinary variety
or involving outdoorsy adventures.
Don't worry about being good at it,
I only know how to pitch one kind of tent after all.
Although I admit I am savvy with a spatula in the kitchen.

TV isn't a big deal, neither are books or music.
Those things tend to blend when you meet someone anyways.
But the really important one is to enjoy cuddling.
When I say cuddling I mean the Olympic sport!

Apply the golden standard,
have at least 2 of the 5:
car, apartment, job, schooling, beautiful smile.
A laugh that makes me smile is worth bonus points.
... whatever you're supposed to do with those - I have no clue.

Voila - It seems like I need to meet myself
and fall in love with what I see.
Because lately when I look in the mirror,
there's a stranger staring back at me.
Someone who I don't know or ask how he's doing.
Lately I don't even take the time to say hello.

I think this guy has a lot of potential,
but I'm scared to really let him into my life,
you see I heard he is insecure at times
and might not like me back in that kinda way.

I need to figure out a way to make him
fall deeply, madly, in love with me.

I should pamper him,
take him out to dinner just the two of us.
We don't need others' company after all.

I should take a walk with him outside
for no real reason at all..
We could even go somewhere in public,
maybe to a club or store at the mall,

I should just show him these things so he can understand
that he doesn't need others' company at all.
He is fine with just me in his life,
the best part is he'd have nobody else to please.
Nobody else to cast on him their needs.
Nobody else to keep him from being free.

It seems like all this stranger needs
is everything in my wanted ad.
It seems like all I need is me,
if I could just learn to appreciate my own company.

https://soundcloud.com/wynnith/wynn-poetry-reading-1-27-14

copy and paste the link into your browser to listen to my public reading of the poem.
Comment and leave your thoughts, suggestions, or throw virtual tomatoes at me below.

****** Poem
1/26/2014

In the mind of a ****** person who doesn't rarely ever get ******.

This is nice, getting to watch online videos on my laptop.
It is entertaining to think about.
Wow, what did people used to do in like ancient times when they got ****** without electronic devices?
Back in the ****** Ages, did they talk to horses in their stables or something?

I really wish I remembered to bring that guacamole to my bed,
I don't want to get up and grab it.  
ugh, but the salt sounds so tasty right now.
Hey, why do we say stuff like 'sounds tasty?'

Maybe I should write a poem about StonedHenge.  
haha henge henge
haha

Okay, that might have been a bit too much.
Do I always follow my stream of consciousness like that?
How long has this song been on?  
Wow, it feels like forever.

The point of this poem at the beginning of the high
was to demonstrate some big idea that I thought sounded really smart
but I think I've lost it now that I'm a ****** person who doesn't rarely ever get ******.
I'm gonna get up and get the guacamole, bye.

Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014

Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.

Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.

Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.

Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.

Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression

but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.

I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.

We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.

I do know
that stop

that
stop

stop.

I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll

you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.

that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.