Tell yourself that you're just tired.
Tell yourself that it was the yawn.
But don't tell that to us. We saw the tear.
We know.

Try not to let us know about it.
About how you still think about her.
About how you stay up until 5 AM, sobbing into your pillow.
We know.

Stop acting so ashamed.
As if it's a tragedy that we know.
We've all been there, many times.
We know.

Tell yourself that she doesn't bother you anymore.
Tell yourself that you don't want to call her this second.
But don't tell that to us. You're lying.
We know.

Don't tell us you were listening to Star Cecil again.
Or pull that bull that you just miss your dad.
Tell that to yourself, because you will believe it.
We know.

We've all been there.
I've been there, he's been there, she's been there.
You aren't alone in the least.
We know.

You will find not one soul on this earth,
Who doesn't understand your feelings.
Because practically everyone knows.
We know.

Stop crying into your pillow.
Get out of your room and take a shower.
Forget her, and get on with your life.
We did.

Another night of nothing,
Except for me, cold coffee, and books.
It's what I prefer, to be truthful,
So it's not as bad as it looks.

It isn't the most exciting thing,
But there are things that are certainly worse.
I could be out drinking and driving,
And then stuck in the back of a Hearse.

It's me and my trusty computer,
Playing more video games.
I'm the epitome of a teenager,
But I find myself free of the shame.

I'd spend all of my Saturday nights,
Bunched in a similar way.
And if my had my choice about it,
I'd do it during the day.

Poems are
Not
Done just by
Starting a
New line
Strategically, just
So that it
Seems that you are
Being deep and
Cannot finish any of
Your complicated
Thoughts. So please
Cut it
Out.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Out pour the words more important than my blood.
The thoughts, the words, the movements and actions,
Flee from my mind and leave not a fraction.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Congealing on a pool beneath me, consistency of mud.
The characters say goodbye as they fall, shouting out their curses.
A swan dive thrown to somersault as they leave my thoughtful person.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Creativity lessened to match the drunk ones in the club.
unable to express myself, brain melted in a heap.
A blank slate of emptiness, thoughts ever obsolete.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Leaking onto the ground in a sickly, sticky sludge.
How do they stand this emptiness, this awful lack of thought?
Dying, slowly draining, I feel as if I've been shot.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Left with nothingness, a flower without it's bud.
I've become an empty, dried up pen, not sure what I was thinking.
Slipped into a dark below, a pirate ship sinking.

Twenty line poems, she asks. Twenty lines.
Twenty lines? I haven't got time.
I can't write on command, I've tried.
Especially not with my compulsive need to rhyme.

Compulsively, repulsively, I'd rather rhyme internally.
Butterflies flutter by, I watch them for eternity.
Eyelids begin to droop, asleep I would prefer to be.
Regretting waking up never has occurred to me.

Why is this so hard if I love to write?
My mind is blocked and the paper remains white.
Put on my Converse and lace them tight.
I'll find inspiration tonight.

Remove me from the house, I'm going for a walk.
Runner jogs by in silence, preferring not to talk.
Step over smeared concrete art drawn in colored chalk.
No birds awake in the night to mock.

Surprisingly, the air is cold.
This Florida heat was getting old.
That giant orb of heated gold.
It's cold elsewhere, I've been told.

Today, I saw something.
Something that left me speechless.
And even to this moment,
I can’t get it out of my head.

In my Spanish class, there is a boy.
This boy is a Senior, and will be graduating in two days.
He isn’t very sociable, and I’ve only talked to him a few times.
But the teacher loves him like her own son.

The boy is a very unfortunate boy.
He wears the same clothes very often,
Since he can’t afford new ones.
And never really has supplies for school.

He is a large, dark-skinned boy.
He keeps to himself, and rarely speaks
To anyone else in the class,
Except for the teacher.

He sits and talks to the teacher all class period
(Assuming we aren’t doing anything in class)
And she listens intently, as if he is the Pope
And is passing the word of God unto her.

I've talked to him only a few times before.
Once, he noticed that I was upset over a personal problem
He convinced our teacher that I wasn't feeling well,
And asked her kindly to send me out so that I could get fresh air.

Nobody really ever talked to him.
Eventually, the seats in class rotated,
And I was moved away from him.
He was allowed to stay next to the teacher.

Through the year, it continued.
He wasn't extremely intelligent, but he wasn't unintelligent either.
He would try his hardest in all of his school work no matter what,
And most of the year could scrape by with a C.

Apparently, he had legal troubles at home
Where his parents had a few physical altercations.
He was out for a few days, and then came back
As if nothing had happened.

In my school, the Senior class leaves before the other classes.
Maybe it is the same in other schools, I'm not sure.
The Seniors graduate in two days,
And the boy is going to be leaving.

Today, the bell rang to end the class.
I was late packing up, and was in class for a few extra seconds
The boy was still in class as well,
Looking at our teacher.

He walked up to her and called her name.
She looked up from her desk and smiled
They talked as if they were great friends for a moment
And then the boy looked very sad.

What he said next was heartbreaking.
"You were my best friend this entire year.
None of my other teachers really cared about me
They thought I was just another kid who didn't care.

But you always helped me, no matter what.
When I was struggling, you would go out of your way
To make sure I understood what was happening.
Without you, I wouldn't be graduating."

He paused to wipe a tear from his eye.
"I just wanted you to know
That you were more loving
Than my own parents at home."

The teacher didn't respond.
She stood up from her desk
And wrapped her arms around his neck
And hugged him like he was her own child.

Neither of them spoke,
But I could hear them both
Gently crying into each others shoulders.
Saying more than words ever could.

I left the class without saying a word
But the sight still hasn't left my mind.
The sweetness, the sincerity of his words,
And how overcome with emotion they were.

It left me choked for quite a moment,
And I had to force back tears before I went to lunch.
When I got there, I sat down with my friends.
And told them what I saw.

I excluded their names,
Not wanting to tell everyone their business.
And did my best not to tear up.
My friends listened intently.

One of my friends was dumbstruck,
And another started to tear up as well.
The others stayed silent, which spoke volumes.
Except for one, who simply uttered "Whoa."

And it's still in my mind.
The large, misunderstood boy
Being hugged by a loving teacher,
Who cared for him more than his own parents.

If I want my work to shine,
Or if I want it in your mind,
Or if I simply have spare time,
I find it's best to make it rhyme.

I find it easier to gleam
Exactly what the poem means.
Or at least it makes it seem
That I had some sort of scheme.

But sometimes I get lazy
And my hands get lazy
And my mind gets crazy
Due to rhymes, mainly.

It makes it much harder,
But I'm a rhyme Martyr.
Or a rhyme Guarder.
Just like James Carter.

It gives my poems shape,
And helps me to create
A vibrant landscape
And provides an escape.