Over the past year, I’ve convinced myself that I am some kind of villain, because I don’t exactly hold the redeeming qualities of a hero or protagonist.

I have no idea how to combat this thought, so I decided I’ll just confess my non-redeeming qualities until the sun sets on my lifetime.

I change the subject a lot, I can never stay focused, and I never stay in one spot, I’m always trying to run somewhere, while trying to get away from something else.

I’m not really a good person, but I'll go my entire life believing that something is incredibly wrong with me. No one is good all the time, and no one is really innocent either. A lot of what I say doesn’t really make any sense to anyone but me, and I’ve come to accept that when I realized that I am pretty crazy and a lot of other people would rather be crazy pretty.

I’m simple, I don’t want much, and I gain very little, so like an actual villain, my desires a pushed away until I need to make someone hurt like I do.

I have very little patience for anyone but myself. Sometimes I wish my grandfather would just die already just so I can write poetry about it, and part of that makes me selfish, and part of that makes me merciful because not all deaths will result in me making art but that’s how it is.

You have to admit, that whether or not you like Jesus, he was probably the best example of the designated driver. He made water into wine just so his buddies could drink it. You might not like him, but you have to admit he knew how to party.

Every time I drive my brother home from school, I wonder what would happen if I died, does my car just drive without me? And then I realize that dying is probably the most gripping experience I will ever have and it is always going to come for me.

There are people in this school who do not know me, and yet I want to tell them they have the world in their grasp long before I came to tell them. I can prophesize what it will be like to die, but not to live like dying can’t touch you.

I cover up my blunt attitude with comedy just because I can and it’s been working for 18 years. I’m a self-manipulator who somehow just gives away the best parts of myself just so people will listen to me.

I’m not good, but I’m trying, and maybe that’s all death will ask of me. I don’t know what a good life is like, but I know that good people are in it. I don’t actually know tomorrow is coming, but I want to be in it.

I don’t hope that I will someday wake up at 80 years old and realize my life is over. Villains don’t live that long anyway. Villains get to watch everything good happen to someone else they hate, but I have no energy to hate so I just watch.

This isn’t a confession of my sins or my faults, it’s a confession of character and identity I thought I figured out years ago.

Religion might be my last “Hail Mary” before leaving and as much as people want to joke about hell, I’d rather just be at a campfire for the rest of my death reciting stories of my life over an endless night sky.

The villain usually dies first, but the happily ever after is an ending we all forget about. When everything is gone, I can only hope my stories are told forever, and when I’m gone I will finally be able to see… everything.
There is always pain. No one really escapes that.

The constant coughing, the sweat, the uneven sleeping, the boxes upon boxes of kleenex you need to carry.

Truth be told, it's a lot of work. But the best part is that with work comes a better fall back into bed, procrastination or not.

But with my kind of sick comes coughing, with coughing comes poison coming out of me, hacking up both of my lungs without the possibility of breathing through either of them.

And the final blow in sickness is loss of voice.

I'm a poet, and a musician. So talking and singing is pretty much how I communicate so without my voice, there might not be a whole lot to me.

I thought about what it might be like to be mute forever, and how terrifying that might be to never sing, or never say... anything.

I can still write, I can still read, I can still play music. I've always wanted more than I'm able in my limitations.

Lesson #1 in being a temporary mute: Figure out how to shout.
Open your arms to the sky, throw rocks across ponds, build a campfire. Put all of your energy into one thing, and make it burst with everything you are.

Lesson #2: Stop. Put everything on the back burner and remember that trees still fall, and gravity is only loud when something falls for it. It just happens.

Lesson #3: Learn to make your own kind of crazy and apply it. I started learning ASL 3 days before I got sick, and people didn't understand, but it didn't matter. Because I knew how to move my hands.

Lesson #4: Be excited for no reason. Smile without a sound and laugh as soon as you can as whatever you find funny. Sometimes that is all it takes to make a day before a night falls on you.

Lesson #5: Listen to the way people scuff their shoes on the floor and compose a masterpiece. Fall in love with a colour and draw, fall into an emotion and stay. You are experiencing life despite limitation, and I don't need to be sick to know anything like this.

Lesson #6: I knew 24 hours before I got better that I was on my last sick day. I'm almost sad it's over. Take note...

I learned more over those 6 days of sickness than a lot of things in my senior year of high school. I'm sad, but hopeful. A poet in a nutshell.

My hearing is a lot better. And I'm not a sick mute anymore. I'm just getting out of sick. But I didn't get any better at listening to people because I tried to listen harder.

I didn't hear more. I just talked less.
Shh.
I'm afraid I'll write this all too fast because of how eager and nervous I am in this moment.

Because you are a million miles away it seems, but all I have to do is say your name and suddenly you are...here.

I never knew how much I needed you until I spent months hearing from you, but never hearing you talk to me face to face.

But my dear, I long for the nights where I will receive an out-of-context text from you at 2 am only because of the timezone difference.

My hands sweating for no real reason.

I guess I really am trying to tell you I love you.

But I'm always to cutesy about it.

Always saying "love ya!" in a text, but I want to say it as though it means so much that the universe will get my words straight to you.

I've never loved anyone more than I love music or God, but I want to come close to that sometime soon.

I don't need a single day to go by without you knowing that you are so beautiful.

And people love it so much they almost hate it.

It is that genuine.

I'm sorry I can't always think of you and remember that I am also a living, breathing person.

I forget myself far too often in the presence of so many good people.

Or I guess...

People who are too good to have me in their life sometimes.

You're probably asleep right now.
Now who's up at 2am?

Ahaa....

I'll just be here.


I love you too much to wake you up.

So just sleep a while.

I'll see you soon.

Or at least I hope so.

Oh!

I almost forgot to say this...

In case you forgot.

I love you.
sleep a while.
1.  I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.

2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.

3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.

4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...

Yes...

5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.

6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.

7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.

8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.

9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.

10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?
This poem is to be typed on a computer.
A list of answers and facts for questions no one asked, or wanted to know the answers to:

I was told in by my high school social teacher that people who have green as their favourite colour were the smartest kind of people, and I thanked my brain for choosing that colour to love.

Despite loving green, I know deep down that red is not only the most attractive colour to wear, but my track team always won the race when we wore it. Superstition or not, red is deadly hot attractive.

When asked if I am religious, I will say "yes". When asked if I have doubted that religion, I will say "Of course". Notice how one answer sounds more certain than the other.

When asked if I am single, I don't hesitate to say that I live in Singletown, Population: Me.

I was once at a show with my mother. Me, wearing my snapback and sweater as we walk in. We're sharing a table with an older man. He says, "I should tell you that a professor told me that wearing your hat backwards lowers your IQ by 20 and that wearing it sideways lowers it by 30". So I said, "Well, I'm glad I don't wear my hat sideways."

I may be stupid, but my favourite colour is green, so do not cross me.

When asked if I wished I was in a relationship, I will say...

I will say that I used to know the answer to that when falling in love was more of a luxury than a tragedy.

I have shaved my head twice. And cutting my hair has just become the main "solution" to making my showers shorter.

When asked if I have questioned my sexuality, I will say "Who hasn't?" and I will also say "You are lucky you're getting an answer out of me."

When asked if I'm going to take the blue pill or the red pill, you know I'm gonna ask for the green pill instead. Because what is smarter than a green matrix pill?! In your face Neo, Morpheus doesn't need you anymore.

I really love and hate telling my story. It's not because I hate myself, or I'm going to cry, or I just really hate telling people everything. I mean, sure those are all true, but it's mostly because I don't want to hurt people.

Every poem I write slowly becomes a poem about her.

When asked about her, I say...
She took the red pill.

Hoping... it made her more attractive.
don't cross the line
My birthday comes in a little over 2 weeks and I think when people talk about birthdays, they are secretly talking about status in blocked hours.

Somewhere in that 24 hour block, a person was born, and that person was me. .....well Yay I guess.

I don't like my birthday. And the reasons for that, are more complicated than you think.

When I was 13, I was really into cupcake birthday cakes. I asked for one, every year, for a long time.

When I turned 15 and 16, my best friend baked me cupcakes and brought them to school for me, and I shared them with my peers. You see, I considered her my best friend, and I guess that's not enough to be the best friend.

It's like unrequited love if you put poisonous platonic friendship in my blood first.

When I turned 17, she did not bake me cupcakes, because I no longer had a best friend. So I spent my birthday mentally by myself while my family sang otherwise.

And right now, I hate cupcakes, and superhero films because they remind me of her. But saying that is the weakest thing to do, since everything, reminds me of her.

I will never admit I loved her, the same way she will shamelessly admit she never loved me. I can't hate her, but I can't see her without hating myself.

You know age, goes up, the same way sadness, goes down. Pulling you into another 24 hour block just so you can say.

"Hey. I made it another day."

I will admit that every day without her is another day without cupcakes, and another day without sugar is another day without happiness. And people may have asked me "How can you flip-flop between preferences like you're not the biggest homosexual in the closet." So when I tell people I'm straight, they tell me I'm not allowed to change my mind.

I loved her, but she left me and took all of my friends with her. And I thought that real friends wouldn't abandon me, but there is always time to be wrong. By the time my birthday comes, I'll be crying, and she doesn't even remember what day my birthday is on.

By the time I read this out loud, I will have been through this birthday, like a person walks through fire. Turning 16 is less about age, then it is about school, and turning 18, is less about the number, and more about becoming an adult. And no amount of adult can neutralize pain.

I have accepted the fact that no man will ever really want to marry me. And no Christian, will ever truly want to love me.
And if I am wrong, I will have to repeat this lost love forever dragging it out in my life.

And if I have kids one day, do you really think...

That I'm going to tell everyone if it's a boy or a girl...

By making blue or pink...

...cupcakes?
Frosting.
I have saved a grand total of 3 lives... maybe.

2 lives probably.

1 life definitely.

I have saved the same life multiple times. Once from suffocation, once in a runaway situation.

I have saved myself numerous times. Twice from suicide... almost. And countless times over from personal trauma and pain.

I think I like pain too much. Yeah, I think I like pain a lot.
I think I like pain because it makes me feel human.

Because if I'm suffering, then the body is working, and if the body is working, nothing is wrong on the outside.

And by outside, I simply mean, the side that people ignore the easiest.

So when I get no reaction from anyone, it's okay. I know what it's like to get screwed over every day by everyone.

It's cool. No big deal.

I like weapons way too much, I like really cool blades and badass guns that for some reason are attached to electric guitars.

I'm a martial arts teacher. Which means that I am responsible for teaching young lives to survive until they are old lives.

I've never had to bare scars on my forearms. But I would like to bare tattoos... but only if you'll sign it with:

"Remember when I was here? Because I don't".

Hahaha... You're funny like that.

You seem to like knives too, you've made my back a knife block out of my back. You like to cook, don't you? Slice me up like one of your best works of art and I will scream how genius you are.

No.

There is no more room for me on a plate for you to serve up!

I...

I would constantly wash dishes after cooking in class. And I would always make sure I picked up some of your plates if I could because doing good things in secret was the closest I ever got to you.

And you went and replaced me with a seemingly nicer, shorter, pretty blonde who was everything that I was... but more

But it killed me that she wasn't me. Or maybe that I wasn't her.

Because she matters to you and that just cuts me up. One day I'll brandish a pocketknife with your name on it.

And every time I want to kill myself over what happened, I have to remember that no matter how many knives are in my back...

I have to keep this one in my pocket.
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