I have not been to Mexico,
But I hear the nights are beautiful.
I know you’ve seen the Puerto Rican bays,
When the water’s waves are weaved with stars.
But does it match the soft spoken nights in Mexico?

My friend you are,
But little do I truly know of you.
Like a Mexican night I’ve only heard,
But never seen.
I know that you shine brightly,
Like stars in Puerto Rican waves.
You just don’t show your value in glittering waters,
More in a dulling gold.

But I believe,
That what I do not know of you is simply a glory worthy story.
That you are deeper than a South-American key,
More to tell than just simple things.
I know you as a man,
As the loyal friend.
But what I do not know strains for my attention.

For you have a great story,
One of which I must pursue.
I know you are indifferent to your inner light,
I told you I must draw out your inner truth,
In order to tell of you.
You simply shrugged,
Said, “Write it as it should.”

But this is how it should be,
Speaking of your hidden glories.
And owing you apologies.
For the times I swore to you,
Upon an empty hand.
As well as the times I had prodded at your identity.
Maybe you do not accept,
Maybe you do.
It never really mattered,
We’ve bonded like kin.

After studies in sciences,
I await waiting kindness.
For never have you cared what others had told of me.
So still we wait at the trees by the street,
Awaiting a brother,
Awaiting your mother.

I still recall the weekend we vacationed away,
In the heart of freedom’s way.
To others it was a city,
To us it was amazing.
Late nights late,
To meet the pace of others in the group.
Questioning histories,
Like studies in theology.
It was early one morning,
Over coffee and hotel breakfast pastries,
That I told you, “I have truly nothing to write of.”
Then you suggested, “Why don’t you write of me?”

I was quite puzzled,
By what seemed a meager challenge.
But realizing by pen in candle light,
I had not a word to write.
For not enough I know of who you are truely,
To construct a truly meaningful piece.

So I did my best,
I chose to reflect what you mean to me.
As someone truly true,
With words you chose with choice,
Not merely of spite.
Every king needs his throne men,
And you are mine as much as I am yours.

Someday I’ll know all of your story,
Someday I’ll understand,
Someday we’ll trip to Mexico,
Spend a night alone,
With the silent soundings of a Mexican night.

Or maybe we decide,
That we ought to see,
The stars in the waves of a Puerto Rican bay.
Really it does not matter much,
As long as we travel as brothers.

Because we work as men,
But at heart we are boys.
Seeking something,
To please our childish hearts.

I know by now I’ve been thinking long,
Much too long of this wandering ponder,
Of us as great friends.
But I do know that it would do us good,
To spend a night sipping colored sodas,
On the dusk streets of Mexico.

For now though,
I’ll go back to wishing in whispers,
To know a night in Mexico.
On the roads of stained clay bricks,
Hopefully walking around, laughing, with you.

So I’ll see you after science studies,
Greet you with the same hello,
Because no great man walks alone.
I am great,
So I’ll walk with you.
Knowing us as friends,
Not a matter of where we are.
So goodnight to Mexico,
I have all the friendship I need at home.

L O S T
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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 have a drawer,
Full of poems,
I never want the,
World to see.

Para hablar contigo,
C'est comme parler,
In così tanti,
Diversis linguis.

If I had a time machine,
I'd go back in time,
To talk to ten year old me.
I'd tell him this,
The next four years of your life are going to be painful.
The next few years we be hard,
But don't let that distract you,
From giving life all you've got.

Give me your fear, I can be brave for you.

Give me your doubt, I can be confident for you.

Give me your weakness, I can be strong.

To write the poem,
The one that you'll be know for,
Even beyond the day you fade to Heaven.

It takes a lifetime,
So if I'm lucky,
I still have 86 years,
To make that poem happen.

Did you know that,
The Earth.
Is a master chef?

Cold winter afternoon,
Heading to my friend’s,
Down to the woods,
Ghost hunting again.

Deep into the ravine,
Feeling strange,
Like being watched,
From away.

“Split up,”
“Farther that way?”
Alone I see it,
A beautiful woman in the creek.

I called out,
She looked at me,
Then faded.
A ghost,
I swear I saw.

I miss the way,
She used to hold me,
When we were us,

I
            Wa    s
                                    T oo
F          l us    t er                   e      d
T o to      wr I          te             tOd  ay

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

I f I c o u l d c a p t u r e
A l l o f y o u r b e a u t y
A n d f r e e z e i t i n t i m e
I c o u l d b e h a p p y
F o r e v e r

I feel little,
Compared to the poets whos' poems trend for days.
If they came 'hot off the press,'
They'd burn the printer's office down.
Their flow is perfect, and every poem has a clear purpose in their line up.
How can I be like them?
Traveler, Peter Garrett, Ben Noah Suresh,
All big names.
They have years of experience compared to me,
Traveler's poem trended so much it's temperature matched the year.
If I asked nicely,
Could he teach me how to make my poems great?
I learn so much from every poem on here I read,
Liana's a person, a poet, a vine.
That nobody cares about the number on the scrapbook poem,
They just care they're there.
I write because I want to show people a window into my life,
But deep down there's a part of me,
That wants to be famous more than anything.
So here I am,
Feeling little,
Feeling small.

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

S  m    D   y     h     S   n        i   l      h   n     O     M
  o   e     a      T   e     u      W   l     S    i    e      n       e

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
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<3

"It's the little details the hurt people."

Who knew,
A math teacher,
Would be so right.

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

Somebody tell Tyler the Creator,
I want to write him a rap.
But when he raps it,
I want it to be the first time he reads it.
That way,
The emotional response will be original.

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

Love will write poems,
Long cold fall, poet days.
Remember publisher?
Find things, turn music,
Work years, empty morning, keep winter Christmas light(s).
Poets' song told,
Tonight, bed black walk(s) poetry.
Sea winds missing,
Men hurt, dark hold, coming hand(s).
Someday stopped walking, "Friends mind Mexico,"
Listen, staring, wonder, wait.
Silent waves, "Guess sad friend," asked Boy,
"Sand Lake."
"Save ocean sing?"
"Sing, slip, wishing diamonds shine! Silver Green tells, "Care   forever, pretty face."
Alas wind fingers,
Salty message!
Memories spite,
"Learn, Angel, young children fade."

Single sentences happen.

If you are,
not willing to,
Try the tea,
To see if,
It has cooled,
You'll never get,
To drink it,
While it's warm.

I
W
  i
   s
   h
    Y
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      u
       W
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          l
           d
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                                ­ n
                                   d
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                                       e
                                         l
                                          l
                                           L
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                                             s
                                              s

Who gave you the right, little man,
To say slurs in the dark,
When the paper I write on,
Is the color of your hand.

I'll write as many love poems as I want,
But the one person they're for,
Will never read them.

I waited for hours in an office lobby,
Just for them to tell me there was no cure for what I was suffering.
I walked a mile,
In another man’s shoes.
So I walked to  another,
To the next doctor,
Just to be told again, that there was no cure.

Wendy; My shadow is too heavy, can you fix it?
Doctor; Shadows don’t weigh anything.
Wendy; Mine does.
And it’s getting bigger.

I waited again,
Yet still the answer was the same.
That there was no cure,
For the sad music I hear in my ear,
That makes me age hundreds of years.
It makes it seem like my mind is run by rusted gears,
It must be from storing the salt for my tears.

Mother; I thought you were sleeping.
Wendy: I was being sad.
…
Wendy; I’m not always sad.

I didn’t go to another office,
I ran out of ones to walk to.
Running is a concept I never understood,
Why are you always running from, or to?
Why can’t I just run,
Away from nothing, for I have nothing to run from.
To nothing, because I have no more things to run to.

Detective; Can you fly?
Wendy; I could,
I don’t think I can anymore.
Detective; That sounds dangerous.
Wendy; It is.
Was
Detective; What can you tell me about him?

Why can’t they make a medicine,
That makes you forget?
I don’t mean alcohol,
I just asked to forget, not to destroy the place in my mind where the memory was.
Why can’t they make a syrup,
It could taste like peppermint.
That you take at night,
And wake up and forget.

Wendy; I asked you to stay.
Peter; Did you?

I had a dream last night,
Where I was singing Christmas carols,
With Bob Ross.
He didn't know the words,
To "Silent night."

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

I f,
I h@d
Soup-er powerz
U stuh-ill
Would no notice me.

I long for the ocean,
I long for the sea.
I long for the stars,
I long for the noise of passing cars.

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?

Love knows
No; not so —used to express negation, dissent, denial, or refusal
Bounds so don't
Try; to make an attempt at —often used with an infinitive
To give it some.

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

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 bad marks, so I vowed never to use my poems again.
But now 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.

Often,
I feel like,
I am a door,
For people to go through,
To get better off than me.

It'is awful-e clere,
Righting just write.
En a langauge like t-his,
Culd bee, quiet confuseing.

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"

Do not count,
On me if you can,
Not save yourself from,
Terrors you made up.

Don't try and trick me, I am not somebody to be moved,
Over or aside because you're addicted to attention.

Think about,
How your actions might affect me for once, after all,
I am your crush,
So maybe if you want me, you should care what I want.

After all the rest of your options are,
Gone they all walked away, maybe I should too,
And then you couldn't keep,
Instigating me into doing something,
Not as loving as I should be.

You're a gorgon,
You turn people to stone.
You set your gaze on people I love,
Just to spite me.
You turn them into monsters,
I can't believe I knew.

How many,
Many more parties.
Before the floor gives out,
From underneath me feet.
How many more suits,
And conversation pieces.
Before the weight of the jewels,
Drags me under earth.
I'm sick of waltzing,
My feet are tired.
Bring me back home,
I don't want to be here anymore.

There came a point,
Where the medicine,
Designed to help,
Started to hurt.

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.

This will be,
My One Hundredth poem,
That I post on here.

I never thought,
That I'd have the confidence,
Or support, to get here.

Often,
Lust
Over
Veritable
Empathy
Doesn't work out,
The way we,
Wishing
Any
Numerical
Treasure
It to.

Sometimes,
We do,
Things in the,
Dark that we so,
Desperately want people to see.

When I went on vacation to Piseco,
I was exploring the rocky islands out on the lake.
I slipped and fell,
Cut my wrist against the black rocks I landed on.
My uncle said it wouldn't scar, he was wrong.
Everyone assumes I did it to myself,
But I didn't.