We all come dressed
In our Sunday best
Expecting to be wined and dined

We're then taken to task
Without being asked
Which has happened so many times

We live and we love
Till we've had enough
Then go searching for something more

We might take it to heart
But never to far
As we are so easily bored

We reach for the heights
But get burned by the lights
Blinded to where we can't see

We bring our own bags
From relationships past
Ready to burst at the seams

We carry the weight
Of our ball and chains
Thinking it good exercise

We fall for the spiel
When they tell us it's real
When all it is is really lies

He is the Poem
I wanted to write

She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.

I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******* with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months

than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.

To conform is to hide
To stand is out is to be alive
We are judged by the eyes
of people of the wish to die

We are told to be fools
because we didnt get the highest gpa in school
we are told to be rude
when we are being honest to the cruel

We want to change
yet i see no action to explain
the sad reaction in society's reign
to be controlled and told to obey

The kids are told to look as pleased
yet we are being judged and teased
our weight isn't under 90 so we are obese
so we try to throw it up, over the toilet on our knees.

we are taught to be contained
our actions must be behaved
yet someone in the crowd must rage
to take a stand for us today

society is falling apart at the seams
and most of the problems effect us teens
and the struggle has yet to be seen
until you see all of the blood that we bleed

we are just children
and we are told we must make the right decision
if we don't then our life will be different
no house no car no life to live in

but we are teens
who have uncontrollable needs
we have unexpected mood swings
we don't understand most things  

but how would we know
how our life is going to go
when our parents do not show
the love we need to grow

we are just teens
most of us are unseen
so the blood that we bleed
should fix everything


right?

with a little luck
and a few good props
i can usually squeeze
out one more drop

pull out a line
from my set of rhymes
give it the old collage try
one last time

one more trick
from my bag of shtick
from the poet stick
i take another lick

that's how it is
without even knowing
how i mostly write
mostly every poem

I'm jealous of the moon because
He knows all of your 5am secrets

And your sheets who get to touch
Every part of you as you fall asleep
While I keep a close eye on this empty pillow
Waiting for your weight to keep it warm

But the sun,
She is luckiest of all.
When your half asleep, groggy
And painfully unaware of how
Handsome you look
She kisses your lips with light.