I am made of wood and nails.
I am made of porcelain and a mirror.
I am made of mattresses and late night thoughts.
I am a flower who's through tears you water and through words you feed.
My petals will rise up to the rafters to give you a life to lean on
I will not boo you, or creep insecurities up through your feet and into your lungs, it is my soul that is the curtain that hides you from the misery, my echo that gives you the final callback, so callback the audience and give it one more try.
Stage fright? It is I who should fear you.

I cannot watch slam poetry at school because my body tells me it is wrong to show emotions that to show emotion is to be weak and I cannot connect the dots of this broken spirit
it is called slam poetry because it makes me watch to break things, to lash out with these tears, to drown the sea of people forcing poets to feel this way, I tell myself that im only crying because im on my period, that this is the red river that heaven cast down upon us for the curse of our femininity.
when I show my poems to my best friend I cannot look her in the eyes because I am transparent and she will see through the mask of indignation and indiscretion that i've put on
when I want to show my poetry to my English teacher I have to send it when I am not around to see the look of disgust on his face and his eyes trail my words like the wind I cannot hear the whispers of not being strong enough, not worthy enough for this career I have chosen
I love the English language, my old ball and chain, but its my insecurity that's weighs me down.
How id love to stand and preach in the choir and sing my poetry for everyone in the gospel to hear, to be praised in coffee houses and tea shops and libraries, to stand up for myself. but I cannot even bare the sound of my own voice, so I sit down and have the polyester seats dig into my skin like knives in the back with myself and its own mistrust.
it is called youtube because it is all about you, you and your favorite button up cardigan, the frayed sleeves from the over worn achievements that I cannot grasp, but the pain is sewn in tight and I cannot pull it above your chest, you can make me scream but I cannot even begin to understand how those lungs continue to be fully functioning when I smoke like a freight train and its frightening how I run this scenario over and over in my head because I can never get high enough to forget the way I arch my back to these metaphors

Tilt the bottle up to my lips darling,'
After the first one I can't help myself

Dead Poet's Society* has gotten too real,
Our favorite form of you is in teal,
Without your dry humor the world has gotten sad,
I wish Mrs. Doubtfire was my real dad,
Without you, todays world has gone whack,
Robin Williams, we need you back!

I have a lot of poems
In a lot of notebooks
In a lot of rooms
**That I no longer go into