parties on fridays are the best kinds
because of the knowledge that sits in the back of your brain,
a used lunch tray,
that you were at school hours before,
and now you're here, warm bodies and hot ***** down your throat
making you feel at home.
parties on saturday are the best kind
because in the morning,
you can sit in church and relive every moment
in between psalms.
hymns will come out of your mouth, but really you're thinking
how
did
i
survive
that?
sunday parties are the best parties,
because everyone has this mutual feeling,
of living before the apocalypse, knowing
that tomorrow you will see them in the hall
and have a bruise named after them.

Would the police look
at my dead hands
and say "she never worked a day in her life."
or not?
Or would they just sigh
and wonder
why
I died so young.

I keep this notebook in my
lap, knowing
in a second I will have more words
more poems to write
about my crazy life.
About me, and the numerous
Emotions I have
in my 13-year-old body.
I hear the ice machine rattle,
shaking it's fist, saying
"Why are you so full of
poems tonight?
You are no Marzena Sowa,
I don't care if your blankets
look like strawberry jam,
and you are in love with the idea
of a crush,
and the clattering of your
computer keeps you awake,
go
to
sleep!"

You'd better call her before you ask her out and see if her voice is cute over the phone
Sometimes when I  sleep I tangle my fingers in my hair and pretend they're not mine
But not this morning
today I'm content with my fingers intertwined with my own
I'm not lonely, probably because I need to ***.
If I was brave enough, would this be enough?

Are you happy that you've made me unhappy
talking about your bad days
and scars from them?
About how you could have
but you didn't and wish you did.
And I'm one of the reasons
I don't listen I just carry
the burden of being the only one who knows you're lost.
Your life is not bad through this orange looking glass
and you're just a sad and lonely kid
who refuses to be called emo.
Do you need words, or a hug, or what?
Because no matter how much you want to think
you can't be helped or fixed,
I was.

Roses want blood,
delicacy, and
grace.

Flowers want life,
Love, and
care.

Doomed are those
who treat their roses
as if flowers
bleeding
until drought

Long live those
who treat their flowers
as if roses
giving
until downpour

you say you’re not a poet but
with a girl like that,
how could you speak
anything less than
the stars?
-a.c.b

She sat and sang alway
  By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
  Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway
  Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
  Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory;
  She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
  Her songs died on the air.

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.