You got your nails done yesterday,
They look so pretty.
Black with white swirls,
Sleek shiny paint.
They're kind of blurry,
Maybe if you help my hand,
I could see them better.

Someday,
You'll bury me alive,
And I won't care,
I'll smile way down into,
The grave.

Excuse me for assuming,
That if I text you 'hi,'
Once in a while,
You'd want to respond.

The rose remembers,
The dust from which it came.
I too remember,
The dust from which I came.
I remember blossoming,
From the bud I used to be.
And I remember winter,
I grew thorns that first frost.
I have memories,
From when I leaned constantly to a lover’s hand.
Because I too rose from dust,
And matured in cold months.
And soon I will drop my petals,
And I will perish,
Just to rise again,
Bearing wings like a phoenix.

S T I L L
t  a t i  o
o l  s e v
p k   s  e
   i
   n
   g

I didn't make the cut again,
I guess that makes sense.
I don't look like the characters from the original film,
I'm not blond a skinny like the prince,
I'm not built and burly like the craftsman.
I'm not pudgy like the shopkeeper,
Nor am I silent like the king

But I can act,
I know I can.
Because everyday I act happy,
Wake up and do it again.
I act confident when I'm up on stage,
But maybe they couldn't see it,
After all, I hide it so well.

Eventually,
I stopped,
noticing the smell,
of burnt,
****.

I wish I was like a star,
And
I
Could
Shine
If
I
Want to.

Who took my happy days?
How come I didn't see them,
When they came to steal my times of joy?
I remember walking for hours in the evenings,
I remember staying up late with friends.
Who stole them from me,
When I wasn't looking?
I remember loving like the world was going to end,
I remember cuddling up with you.
Your kiss was so warm,
I loved those freckles that spread across your face.
Who lead you away,
Did you look back?
When the invisible man took you from me?
Where did my joy go?
I remember I would get scolded for smiling too much,
Now I've forgotten how to smile.
Why'd they take my smile away?
What did I do to deserve to lose it?
Where'd they go,
My happy days.

I like looking for my friends' poems online,
Although I know I've never met them,
And I probably never will.
I still consider them friends,
Although they're just a person here to read poems,
And I don't know what they even consider me.

I trended for five minutes,
Not a single minute more.
And yet those five minutes,
Are the best five minutes,
That I've ever had before.

Oftentimes
I'm the only one
In the way
Of myself

i like raP music,
it makes me feel like theRe are,
famous peOple who understand,
the poems that i pUblish,
even if most are saD.

I don't read poems off the front page,
I read the ones in 'recent.'
Why?
I like looking for new stuff,
And it makes sense that what comes hot off the press,
Cools down soon.
I've seen the popular poets,
But the new ones need some love too.

When did the sun start setting,
Before 5:50 at night?

Someday,
I'd like to,
Write,
A poem where,
Every,
Line is written,
By,
A different poet.

I can't believe I'm missing you,
After all the things you put me through.
Sleepless nights making sure you were alright,
Dreary days ensuring you were eating okay.
You never wanted to be seen in public,
So we never went on dates.
All the ways you would curse yourself,
All the compliments you gave me, that felt like insults in disguise.
When I got in trouble for the times I'd meet up with you 9th period,
And I had to talk to that counselor that I didn't like.
The way his office was so blank,
It made me uncomfortable.
The days I had to walk by the street,
Because you liked drifting too close the speeding cars.
After all the things you put me through,
I can't believe I'm missing you.

I miss the days in summer,
When cold rains didn't drown out the sun.
And cold winds,
Wouldn't make my dry skin burn.

I was walking down the street,
And I saw you from afar.
Staring at me from the park bench,
On the elementary school's playground.
You waved at me,
I didn't wave back.
I don't think I'm ready to forgive you yet.

When they make colored pencils,
No matter what color they want to make,
It always starts out as green.

I think I fall in love too easily,
Maybe that's why people keep leaving me.
I have a whole box of herbal tea,
That I bought after she left me by our favorite tree.

My brother said he hates the boy scouts,
I don't know why, what have they done to him?
Maybe he hates them because,
They trimmed one too many branches of the Christmas tree.

I
Guess
I
Didn't really think
I
Would actually wind up in your scrapbook
I
Think that's pretty strange it's like
I
Predicted it when
I
Named these "Scrapbook Poems"

If you asked me what my name was while I'm dreaming,
I'd answer A-B-B-O-T-T.
I've spelled it so much it's stuck in my brain,
But how come I have to keep spelling it for people,
I've known for so long?

Tonight,
Is cold,
And the moon,
It has a halo,
My father tells me that,
Because of the temperature of tonight,
Though I wonder what if the moon,
Is really just an angel too high up.

I wonder occasionally,
If I write too many of these.
But I remind myself that,
While other people love them.
I'm really writing these for me.

I
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<3

Jesus Garcia,
Drive your train.
Be brave and drive the flames away,
Jesus saved his town, but couldn't save himself.

Tonight there were fireworks,
They went off over the lake.
They were so loud,
It was like they were trying to blow a hole in the sky.

I want to be something great,
But according to everyone else,
That's well beyond my years.

Why is it only my youth they comment on?
Are they admitting I'd be better off than them,
If I was aging on 41?

A poet is somebody who writes poem,
Not someone, old, who writes a poem.
So call me a poet, or that is what you are not.

Back in school I submitted my poem for an English assignment.
I got back marks, so I vowed never to use my poems again.
But know all I want to do, is shove my poems in front of you.

Have your opinions about whom a poet should be,
Just don't use them to disrespect me,
And my stupid poem about olivine.

I'm sick of writing about winter,
I'm sick of singing of Christmas,
And when my dear mistletoe lover will come.
If I have to find another word to rhyme with snow,
I might just bury myself in it.
It'd be kind of ironic you know,
Just think of all the places I still have left to go.
Please leave nativity to the other poets,
Don't expect just because you ask for a happy winter's poem,
You'll get one out of me.
Because I see snowflakes as another way to freeze,
And I see images of people, hanging from the Christmas tree.
So when comes Christmas Eve,
I will be sitting in my home,
By the fireplace,
As those less fortunate begin to freeze.
For, how can we have a rich holiday,
With baubles of silver,
And ornaments made of gold.
When the unfortunate fight for warmth on the streets,
No one will give them presents this Christmas.
I would, but even for a young man,
I've grown frail and weak.
I can't make it through a flurry,
Much less a proper Christmas Eve's storm.
Though, the way things are looking,
It won't be a white Christmas at all.
Children will bundle up,
To go play in the dead grass and mud.
How enchanting is that,
Christmas day green as a creeping ****.
It's scary when the pictures of Christmas you know,
Just look like something Hallmark would want you to believe.

It seems,
That the poem,
You want to be,
Popular isn't always going to,
Be and that's a shame but,
I'm just glad somebody will read my,
Poems now nobody used to read them thanks.

If you lose a poem,
Just the paper you wrote it on.
You haven't lost the poem at all.

When you give someone a poem,
It should make them blush.
But not redder than you,
Though, often when I give someone a poem,
They don't read it at all.

My love sent me to dig two graves,
One for her, one for me,
When our eternity has passed.
But instead I dug three.
One for her,
One for me,
One for my temptations,
That I’m tempted to take you see.
Even if I love her,
I still love the thrills.
So when I am old,
And life brings drafts and chills.
I will hold her close to me, to the grave,
But I will bring all the thrills,
They just don’t seem to leave me.

Sometimes,
I write these when somethings on my mind.
Most times,
I write these when nothings on my mind at all.

My love is warm,
She makes my face flow with red.
My love is cold,
To others but I cannot feel it.
My love is trusting,
Good thing I was honest.
My love is playful,
Good thing I played her game.
My love is one of a kind,
The only woman I see.
My love is careful,
With my heart that is healing.
My love is a thief,
Of my breath.
I am lost in my love.
She is a frozen hourglass,
A bottle of endless time together.
She is my muse,
A piece of glowing beauty.
She is a torch,
My guiding light.
And, oh,
She was mine.

Sometimes I'll be listening to music,
And the music will pause.
So I have to go back to what's playing the music,
To ensure it that it's playing the right song.

If the stars stopped shining,
The night would be like the deep sea.
Dark and cold.

If the stars stopped shining,
The light from the sailor’s lanterns,
Would reflect off the sea,
Like sunset on the Antarctic ice.

And the shipmen and their saxtons,
Could not find their way back home.
And there would be a little boy in the window,
Every night.

Waiting for his father to return.
There would be a woman at the widow’s peak.
Waiting for her husband to come home.

If the stars stopped shining,
Would lovers still love each other?
Because if the stars stopped shining, I don’t know if I would still see you.
In that certain way I’ve grown to love.

My dog can't see,
He goes under the table and paws at me.
Asking me to pet him, which I do.
But how does he know,
What hand is petting him if he can't see?

I sorry,
I turn on brain.
Me no think.
Think make you go away.

Imagine reading a poem,
Beginning a comment on it,
Looking for the name of the author,
And realizing you wrote it.

The fact I can press a button on here,
And read poems to make make you happy.
I love it.
But there's a reason it's poems 'to' make you feel happy,
It isn't guaranteed.

So is there a poem on here that I can read,
That will teach me how to love again?

If I knew how,
I'd write music to go along with the words in my poems,
And I turn my poems into songs.

They told me,
The kind of person I am, is good.
I asked them if they meant my because of my art,
They simply patted my shoulder, "You're not like them darling."
Who are they,
The people you say are bad?
I saw no one different than me at the showcase,
We were all humans who gathered to show off our art.
Of course, I know what they meant,
I just couldn't believe they'd say it.

I sit in the audience,
Watching still as the choirs sing.
I hope that you’re here,
But deep down I know you won’t be.
You never are.
But you always apologize to me,
And even if I’m angry I will accept it.
Because your apologies are so good.
And I don’t want you to walk away,
So my tears are now silver stones,
That lay deep in my throat,
And slip out at night when I cry.
But at morning I will pick myself up,
I will be strong,
Because I fear that you won’t love me if you see my faults.
I am quiet,
Because every word is a risk.
I fear that when I speak,
You’ll grow tired of me and then you’ll leave.
So I act like a ghost,
Because you can’t hurt a ghost.
And nothing should hurt me.
Life is all just a game,
That I am losing.
So if you come you come to play,
Though I want to hold you,
It won't happen today.

Oh Liana,
Your name spills from my mouth,
Like classical music in an empty auditorium.
For the room must be empty,
Because if you were here with me you'd notice my affection,
Right?

Never mind, now I know,
You could never be you for you,
You wouldn't even be you for me.
It's not my fault,
But if it isn't, why does it hurt so bad?
You were the one thing I wanted,
You were my one and only dream.
I put you in front of my needs,
I ignored the water rising to my eyes.
I ignored the feeling of my heart dying inside,
Just for you, Liana.
I did everything for you,
You did nothing for me.
I don't blame you,
I know why you couldn't.
But darling please,
When I say I love you could you at least respond to me?

I have yet to hear his symphony,
In o’ so very long.
I wait here every day, hoping to hear the mystic song.
To experience his mighty minuet again.

For that night,
Somewhere far from the hills.
South of the rapids that drive away the men.
I heard a cricket, who carried the most entrancing melodies.
And as it played, the branches of the trees began to sway in a musical way.
What a beat!
Made o, by a tree!

I thought little of it.
Then the grasses began to ripple.
And someone in the town began to sing.
“O’ Martha, why can’t you stay?
Why must the men carry you so far away?”

O’ what a sound,
Only broken by the final fading of the starry sky.

The wind chimes clink a sweet melody, blown by the soft evening air.
The fire is dying in the hearth as we say our good nights.
Some head out to the porch to listen to the sounds of the night,
Though I and the others head off to bed.
A coyote howls out in the forest, maybe on the cliff I found walking earlier.
My bedside candle is lit as I open my book.
As I read I listen to the calls of the owl, asking “Who is still out there, on this starry, cold, night?”
I blow out the flame and shut my book just as I hear them coming in.
I turn my head on my pillow and slip off into silent slumber.
Wondering what the next dawn will bring.

Slipping soundlessly into sound,
Is the dancer,
Moving in motion so proud.
I regret the times I didn’t see,
The true amazement she could be.
Instead I saw her uncut form,
Raw emotions,
Which I responded to with stabbing thorns.
It wasn't enough that I returned to you,
Bearing a bouquet of apologies.
Because I loved to hold you,
You loved to be held by me,
I needed attention, I thrived on greed.
Now I hold nothing,
Because you left me.
Slipping soundlessly away,
Leaving forever,
Now I remember you as a fading tune.
God I love that song,
Oh, God, I loved you.
Why do I portray your voice,
As a flute,
Silver, portraying tunes.
Nothing more,
We weren't meant to be.
But sometimes I wonder, how do you portray me?