I know this life
well enough to know
that people like to get hurt.
It gives them
a story to hold their place
until next time.

I was taught
at a young age
that pain doesn’t demand
anything from us.
I never asked for
heart aches
or wounded knees.
I knew better
I was taught better.

I have friends
who grew up
with the misfortune
of knowing pain
as well as they knew their knuckles.
It was physical
psychological
emotional.

I know this life
well enough
to know
that humans
don’t
break.

Our bodies
are concrete.
We have to fill
the cracks
sometimes
but its takes
years
for them
to crumble.
I’ve known girls
that tell me
they know pain.
They’ve  felt it
grab their legs
and straighten
their spines.
They swear
they’ve shattered
into a million pieces.
They pray
for this moment.
They don’t
want to pick themselves
up.

They’ve been taught
to crack.
They’ve romanticized
pain
but wonder why it hurts so much.


I’ve grappled
with that concept.
I’ve known only
what life
has afforded me
thus far.

I know only myself
and I know that
I’ve kept wet cement
under my bed
for 10 years.
When I start to chip
I’ll fix it myself.
Don’t take an ice pick
to your body.
It’s too beautiful
to break.

I lost my mind the other day.
I found it hiding
in the corner of my closet.
I tried to pick it up
it told me
“No more
I’ve been picking up after you for far too long. Give me a break.
I need to empty out the unfinished sentences
and broken scenarios you’ve left graffitied on my inside.”
“I’ll be back when I’ve healed”

It returned yesterday
and told me
"You worry me into a panic
I can't leave every time
you fall asleep
to the sound of your heart
pounding so loud you can hear
nothing else.
People are beautiful
and you know this
because you are one.
You have every reason to
love this world
You have every chance to explore it.
Instead you choose to stay at home
and watch a new movie
Because its much easier to watch excitement
than it is to experience it.
How selfish of you.
You were given this chance
to live
and instead you simply choose
to exist.
Do not sell yourself short.
Do not be afraid of New.
Do not harbor Old.
Release what you know
and replace it with
more.
Give life its chance to prove
that it isn't as scary
as you think
it is.
I won't leave you again
but don't give me
a reason to."

Last Friday I did a very good job
of drinking away
my anxiety.
The sad part was
the only person
there to see it
was my mom.

It took me awhile,
but  five beers
and two
hard ciders later
I was free.

I’m almost 19
and I’ve already
started solving
my problems
with vices.

I had my *** phase.
It treated me no better
than any cigarette I bummed.
In the end
it was all just smoke.

Alcohol made me into something
I believed to be better.
I smile because I mean it.
I don’t shy away
From people.
But I’ve come to realize
that I’m worth more
than two shots of *****
and bottle of Mike’s Hard

It’s so easy to forget
what’s circling
in my brain.

I forgot about
school starting
in 2 weeks.

I forgot about my friends
and why
I’ve been feeling
that there’s a lack there of.

It is no ones fault
but my own.
I have no pity
for myself.

I’ve refused to believe
that taking a pill
would vacuum
away the half finished
poems and the
torn up ideas I have
in my mind.

It’s become very
difficult
to explain
myself.
Most times I wish
I didn’t have too.

I’ve never been approachable.
I look mean
But I promise
I’ve always tried to give
everything.
I always thought
that if I said yes
then so would others.

I woke up that Saturday
at  five a.m.
Realizing
that the world kept moving
when mine slowed down.
School will still come
and so will tomorrow.

Give me a pack of cigarettes
Because it’s much easier
to wash that smell from my mouth
than it is to get
these thoughts out.

I knelt beside my bed last night
looked at the crucifix above it
and pretended it was God.
Truth be told it’s a ceramic cross
that I was taught to believe in.
Stare at it, confess your sins, absolution is yours.
And that’s what prayer is.

I spent 12 years in Catholic schools.

School taught me little about God,
Other than how to recite the Our Father
And why I should remain a ****** til marriage.
As well as how lucky I was
To have my parents pay for my schooling
Just so I could say prayers I didn’t understand out loud.
My parents worked hard
For my sister and I to wear uniforms
and say the rosary 5 times more a year than we would have.
I wasn’t taught faith
Or how to seek kindness.
I was told to accept Catholicism
Or risk damnation.

My family went to church every Sunday.
We said grace before our meals,
And we thanked God for food we bought ourselves.

This sounds atheistic.
But it isn’t.
Because I believe in God.
However I do not believe in ignorance.
I do not believe in hate.
I do not believe in discrimination.
Three things the Catholic Church practices.

I’ve never believed that saying  “****”
Was a one way ticket to hell.
I never believed that missing mass
Would be more suffering I’d endure in purgatory.

I believe in a God
That accepts us
For everything that we are.
A God that will not mind if
We didn’t spend an extra hour
Kneeling in a pew
Listening to another human
Preach to us HIS interpretation
Of a book
None of us will ever
Fully
Understand.

I don’t believe in a tall man
With a long beard.
I believe in a young girl with brown eyes.
I believe in an oak tree that’s branches have
Seen more than I ever will.
I believe in everything.
Because God is everything.

I’ll kneel by my bed tonight
And look at my ceiling.
Because my ceiling is as good as any crucifix.
I’ll say my prayer
For everyone
Who recites their Bible
Fears God
And squeezes their rosary tight
In hopes that it will give them something
They’ve always been lacking.
Faith.

I always seem to write something
In hopes that I’ll be the first person to say it.
I never am.
Someone has always said it
And said it much better than I did.

I started writing as a senior in high school.
What a terrible time to start
Because my ego got in the way
Of all the words I wanted to say.

I should have picked up another habit
Because smoking or gambling
Would have been far less
Self destructive
Than writing has been.

The first poem I ever wrote
Was about a heartbreak
I thought I had.
I wrote in hopes
That they would see it.
I don’t know if they ever did.
But that’s when I learned how not
To write a poem.

I’ve moved on since then.
Now I write about things.
Because it turns out they don’t change
People do and that’s okay.
But writing about who a person is now
Will not stop them from becoming more than your words.

That doesn’t make sense to everyone.
I’ve written poems
About people who lived life
A day behind everyone else.
Because they believed it gave them time.
But life catches up
And believe that it is the most unforgiving
******* any human will meet.

I’m now a sophomore in college.
I’ve recently decided to start a career in writing.
People always give me that look
When I tell them.
Writing doesn’t assure you of anything.
“Why write?
You could teach and live life $30,000 a year.”

This is truth.
It’s consistent, no worries.
But it’s easy.
Everything I write
Comes from a part of myself
That I have to struggle to find.
This struggle kills me
But I regenerate when the poem is finished.
And I’ve found that I’d rather **** myself a thousand times over
Than live to die once because it made life easy and hurt less.

I might never say something first.
Someone will always come before me
And I will always come before someone.
This poem is done.
And I am alive.

My bathroom has a faucet that drips.
It’s very easy to sit there and stare at it.
Drip drip drip.
It reminds me of this saying
People in hell want ice water.
And I wonder if people in hell would take any water
Because being in a situation such as that
I wouldn’t be too picky.

I watch this faucet
And it feels like a sin
To let all of this water go to waste.
I know enough about tools
But not enough about sinks to fix it
So it continues.

It’s such a waste
And I wonder what’s a bigger waste?
The water going down the drain
Or the time that’s ticking
While I watch the water go down the drain.
I know where the water will go
I’m not so sure on the time.

I’ve done worse with my time though.
Nothing compares to summer I spent
Every night re-watching Stand By Me
Because I thought it might end differently.

Or the four times I looked in my mirror
Last night before leaving my room
To make sure I looked the same as I did before.

Or the time I spent writing this poem
About a leaky sink
Trying to find metaphors in water
And lost time.

But everything will add up in the end.
At least I hope it will.
No, that’s wrong.
I believe it will.
I can’t spend time hoping.

So the time I spent watching that sink
Or writing this poem will be for the greater good?
I have no idea.
I’ll just keep watching this ******* sink

Or I’ll leave the bathroom
And Google how to fix
Leaky sinks.
Because
People in hell want any water
I can't waste any more of it.

I didn’t think about fire
until I was 5 years old.
We once knew a family whose
house caught on fire.
My parents spared me
the details.
But I was terrified.

I wasn’t allowed to light fireworks
until I was 11.
Truth be told I didn’t want too.

I once had a friend whose brother
lit their house on fire with a snake.
The ones meant for concrete.
The ones that are “safer” for children.
He used a blow torch
on his bed.
He was 4.

That was the first day I saw fear.
Not “scary movie cockroach” kind of fear.
The kind of fear that can only be fathomed
when you are so close to death
you can feel it kissing your neck.
I was 13.
That was the year I learned how to use a lighter

I wasn’t allowed to burn candles in my room
until was I was 15.
By that time I really wanted to.
Fire meant responsibility.
Fire meant trust.

I was 16 when I smoked my first cigarette.
I thought it felt right.
Which couldn’t possibly be true
because statistics show
everyone hates their
first cigarette.

That was the first time I used fire
without permission from my parents.
And the funny thing is
it was one of my mom’s cigarettes.

That was the first day I saw adulthood.
Acting without warrant
Fire meant rebellion
Fire meant disobedience.
And ever since.

Everything’s feels right when everything is burning