Where is your passion?
It is so easy to hold an opinion
Given to you.
You take what you are given
And say that it is your favorite.

Where is your passion?
I see all these others
hidden in you,
under the folds of your sleeves
we ask you a question and they speak.

Where is your passion?
When people ask you what you want to be
do you say,
"Whatever makes money,"
And do you think everyone else knows
what you need?

Where is your passion.
Really, what do you love and why?
Do you have to think before you speak
Do you just lie because
You can't think of anything?

Your passion is in you.
You're a flame burning,
Some where in you is the fuel.
What keeps you burning is different
From the soot of the world.

I found that I cannot cry, and expect, in my tears, that a poem has been written.
Emotion, and heart, and feeling are not the only components to art,
and boy is it ******* hard to come up with the rest.
Sometimes, I’m so choked up on inspiration,
that I can’t get my figures to move well enough to type or write.
I’ll have a feeling in my head, so strong that it washes away any words for explanation.

Right now, I’m stuck, so I stumble, and I fall.
The poem collapses onto itself,
And I’m back at the beginning again.
With so much feeling and ideas.
And Nothing to show for it.

Nobody is ever happy with what they got.

My body clings and hangs on me like damp clothes,
It's my favorite outfit.

My body is random brush strokes and smears of paint,
People have seen it as art.

My body acts as plain, simple soil,
On it, I have grown like a tree.

My body is an opinion.
Interpret it as you will.

I'm still learning

Everyone has a talent.
Whether it be practical or not,
Pleasing or not.
Everyone has a talent.
And sometimes that talent is just
Not good.
A talent for being impeccably rude,
A talent for ******* up relationships,
A talent for making people hate you,
A talent for spitting out gibberish when someone asks, "Why are you sad?"
Everyone has a talent.
But when people look inside themselves,
And see the talents they never wanted,
They fake another.
They learn to carry a note,
Play an instrument,
Draw a picture,
Write a poem.
But inside they know,
We're not good.

The validation for a mental disorder is proof of your prescription
Because in this world your cry for help is considered a cry for attention,
And you are to be dismissed.

Being sad isn't permitted because somebody else in the world has it worse
Somebody trumps you on the ****-o-meter, so who are you to complain.
Put yourself in their shoes, you say.

No. I will live my life in my own clothing, my own skin.
I will suffer my own woes and ******, I will not be made ashamed of that.
I am important.

My own story is no less valuable, I will not make my mind believe otherwise.
I can and will do great things, no matter how small they may be.
And I will have lows along the way.

I may be weak for this, and that is just fine with me.
Between being weak and honest with myself, understanding my feelings and thoughts,
Is more important to me than pleasing you.

And as the sky paled to ashen grey,
I reverted back to the days of simplistic poetry about the weather.
How golden leaves contrasted sharply against the whiteness of above.
Content to ignore my inner conflicts,
I could entertain myself with the sight of my breath,
The squish of moist earth beneath my boots.
It was easier to look in the mirror and be pleased with what I saw
When the light was refracting through these dense clouds.
And none would be the wiser when they saw me happily trotting along.
None would have seen a falter in my grin,
Nor a lack of luster to the light in my eyes.
Perhaps that's the point to these little bits of written art.
If we can see a beauty in a drop of rain,
Then why not ourselves.

3rd Grade, Awards Assembly
Children are filed into the cafeteria in almost orderly lines
Giggling about silly jokes that make no sense to adults
But for awards, they are silent, and expecting.
Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, finally
The little girl with her shiny black shoes waits for her award telling her that she qualifies as smart
And she receives perfect attendance

8th Grade, School Computer Room
Awkward preteens set in blue plastic chairs
Friends clumped together around a single screen
"Secretly" googling ***** like it's a crime, though everyone knows
But in the very back
The girl with her black bag full of books checking her grades online
Has her nose to the monitor and worry in her heart
Because just perfect attendance makes her a disappointment.

Junior Year, Home Bathroom
Soapy water soaks the floor and into a dollar store rug
The bath is half empty and tinted a rusty shade of red
And sitting on the floor with her knees to her chin, carving A+ into the scarred skin of her arm
Is the girl, almost a woman, with her eyes messily ringed in black, who doesn't dare cut too deep.
Killing herself would mean losing her perfect attendance.