Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like an offering.
The unrequited love
Of years to come
Glistens in his eyes
For but a moment.

Sharp young minds
Clutching magnolias
Spinning webs of imagination
Like silk worms and spiders.
The webs, soon to be tainted
With lies and flies
And magnolias.

Bright pink magnolias
Epitome of womanhood
To brighten the rainy day
When he layed magnolias
On his mother's grave.
Only a child,
Weeping into his father's
Sullen form.
To young to understand
Death.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like a promise
To remember.

The steady pitter patter
Of rain on windows
Like deft fingers on a hollow drum.
A steady chill
Of grey stretched across the sky
Like the cow hide pulled taught
Over the Woden skeleton of a drum.
Watch through windows
The rain that falls
From the clouds to the ground
Smearing across windows
In a drizzle of grey
Painting abstract trails of water
On the landscape.
Water will not scorch me
So I run in the rain
And feel alive
Yet wet with raindrops
That stain my clothes
With big wet splotches.
I escape the monotony
And the steady drum beat
When I run in the rain.

Oh youthful innocence
Why did you leave me so fast.
I feel like adolescence
Was ****** upon me
Like a straight jacket
No room for mistakes.
Scoliosis from book bags
Full of homework
Sagging with responsibility.
Late nights spent with red eyes
And tissue boxes
Letting stress seep out through tears
But only when no one is watching
I am a pillar of strength.
I yearn for days of Lego towers
Barbie dolls and dress up.
Why can't I stay in neverland
Responsibilities perpetually
To far off in the distance
To concern me.
I want to not care so bad
But that is not an option.
So I press on and move forward.
I keep on growing up
And resenting it.

I am a woman.
I am a feminist.
I bleed out of my ****** on a semi-monthly basis
Unless of course there is a fetus
hiding in my ******.
This is a proven fact.
See i'm not particularly fond of the fact
that women were treated
as property.
That virginity is valued over education.
That I need to have a ***** to deserve equal pay.
That I can't show skin because it's 'distracting'
when ******* are sagging their pants to their knees.
That children blindly sing the lyrics to Blurred Lines
without thinking about what it means.
I believe that women are beautiful without photoshop
and failure to recognize the word stop should mean
Go Directly To Jail and do not pass go.
I am a woman
I am a feminist
and that doesn't mean that I can't play football
or kick your *** at Halo.
If I sleep around I'm not a ****.
There is no guide to "how to make her ****"
I am a woman
I am a feminist.
I do not believe in gender roles
I believe in dinner rolls
and counting carbs is cramping my style.
I am worth more than my ******.
Beauty is not a dress size.
Lesbian is more than fetish ****.
A single mother is a warrior not a *****.
I am a woman
I am a feminist
Do not dismiss my protest for angry rants.
The baggage between my legs shouldn't drag me down
I am a woman
I am a feminist
What happened to equality?
Does it not apply to me
Because
I am a woman?

I feel like a sinking ship
RMS Titanic
the unsinkable boat
never completing it's maiden voyage
my maiden voyage.
It lays with it's belly swollen from age
at the bottom of the mid atlantic.
I lay in my bed
big blue headphones seal me off
from the scary world outside
my belly is swollen from comfort eating.
My journey is much less majestic
I never sank down in the ocean
thousands of lives were lost
to the icy see
but there is only one casualty in my shipwreck.
I try not to think
too hard about my life
my future
I read to escape from my own mind
I seek out distractions
from my responsibilities.
At night
the monsters under my bed are
failure
disappointment
tests
grades
lines to learn
social circles
scheduling
college.
A good man once said
the only certain things in life are death and taxes.
he could not have been more right
and frankly that scares the **** out of me
I'm a planner
I want my future to be set in stone
and if I weren't an atheist
I would pray for time to be static.
I am scared to death of what lies ahead
there is a fog bank over my future
that no crystal ball can decipher
my life is one big cypher
i can't crack the code.
I try not to expect people to understand me
because I can't even understand myself.
my mother tells me to walk
with my head up
my shoulders back
open my chest
stand tall.
When I look down I see the present
If I look out all I see is my future.
I'd rather hit a literal wall than a figurative one.
I am a sinking ship
but I sink slowly
and the RMS Titanic had survivors.

When i was younger
I loved to color.
At my grandparent's house
there was a shoebox
full of crayons.
I am older now.
So are my grandparents.
I got the crayons from the closet
because I still love to color.
With a satisfied smile
my grandfather turned to me
and said "you remembered where the crayons were"

This poem is dedicated to the guys in my class
who talk about girls like they aren't worth more
than their vaginas.
This poem is dedicated to the *******
who say that anyone deserves
to get *****.
This poem is dedicated to the jocks
who look down on the outcasts
and exclude them.
This poem is dedicated to the girls
who call their peers *****
because of how they dress.
This poem is dedicated to the bigots
who preach homophobia
in the name of god
This poem is dedicated to the parents
who abuse and neglect the children
that they promised to love
This poem is dedicated to the misogynists
who can't seem to grasp the concept that
No means No
This poem is dedicated to the *******
who humiliate the people
who don't conform.
This poem is dedicated to the lowlifes
who beat down the ones
that they're supposed to love.
This poem is dedicated to everyone
who carries hate in their heart
where there should be love.

This poem is as follows:

*******.

Do we really need
To remind each other of
Kindergarten rules?

Treat others how you
Want to be treated; there is
Nothing more simple.

Do I need to make
This concept slightly clearer?
Don't be a *******!

How do you think
Those mismatched socks feel
When you pull them
From the dryer.
Do they know that they will
Never see their match again
That they will always be
Half of an equation.
Do they know that
They have lost their purpose
Never to be regained.
When you pull that single sock
From the dryer
Does it understand
That it will never be complete again.
Sometimes
I feel
Like the mismatched socks.
But then I remember
That I am melodramatic
They are just socks
And someday
I will find my other sock
I will find you.

In the 8th grade
They told us to write about
What we believed
Others wrote about
Hope
Honor
Happiness
Hard work
I wrote about
Death
We had to read them
To the class
Everyone else
Was told
Good job
Well done
Nice work
I was told
That I was
Wrong.

In the 8th grade
They told us
To write an essay
About
Anything
Others wrote about
Cats
Music
Sports
Literature
I wrote about creationism
And why I thought
That it was stupid
We had to read them
To the class
Everyone else was told
Good job
Well done
Nice work
I was told
That I was
Wrong.