Writing poetry is a lonely thing
It looks you square in the eyes, smiling
It asks you to write alone
Even in company
When writing poetry
You are alone

And even lonelier still
It asks you
To go inside of yourself
There are things there you must find

There is a man inside my body
A boy
And they look just like me
They each hold letters
I do not know what they say
I must find them

Poetry is love you want
Is someone you want to be in love with
Poetry is a child tugging at the pant-leg of someone
You want to be in love with

Poetry is the coffee stain on long sleeve shirts
Right over the wrist
Your mother called them chocolate stains
Never blood

Poetry is my drunk fingertip stumble
My white-boy wasted
My way of loving less awkward

Poetry is someone telling you they love your poetry
Poetry is loving someone for loving your poetry
Poetry is also kissing that person

There is a man
In mirrors he might be me
We have a letter we want to give to you
But they read like a feeling

We spend hours in solitude
Finding ways to step into the daylight

Poetry is convincing you
You need a reason to step into the daylight

There are words etched into your teeth
All white
No bling
The letters change with the shape of your mouth

Smile more often
Even when you don’t want to

Poetry is trying to teach you to speak peace
with the words in your smile
To people you don’t want to speak peace to

Poetry is an angry father
Is neck bruises from belt loops
Is rug-burn from being dragged across the floor

Poetry does not love you
It simply asks you
To find space inside of yourself
And then it wants you to give it to someone else

There are people inside of you
With stories

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
Giving it away
Until no one can be a thief to your soul

That too
Is poetry

Pain is beauty,
Pain brings out a side of me, a side of us,
Unlike any other,
My hollow bones lift themselves from their shallow grave,
To write these words,
To write the words that relinquish the pain,
My fingers are heavy with pain,
But with each word written,
They become more nimble,
The feeling in my body is once more,
This is what makes us feel alive,
Pain,
We love and we lose,
We fall and we bruise,
So easily,
But the pain is the reason I keep writing these words,
So please,
By all means,
Hurt me some more.

My skin is paper thin,
After years of wear and tear,
I'm sorry to say,
But I don't think it can bear,
Much more,

Of these played off instances of verbal abuse,
Some day it's going to be more than me that you will start to lose,

I hope in these next few days you will realize what you did and who you are,
Maybe I'll be dead or maybe I'll be far,
Away,

From this ****** ****** up town,
From you and all your friends,
Your words have created nothing,
But clever ways for me to end,

Eventually, I will grow fragile and forget,
The times I spent alone depressed will be the times that I regret,

I've killed myself a thousand times over in my head,
It's sad to think I won't be remembered when I'm dead.

A cold metal bench,
And an empty mind,
Before this day came,
I figured I'd be fine,

I will **** myself tonight,
After I mow the lawn and shower,
Eat some leftover pizza,
And enjoy my last few hours,

I will rummage through the cabinet,
Find the pill bottle and the toxic chemicals it contains,
I will pour them down my throat,
I will pray it melts my brain,

I will start to feel funny,
I will sit on my bed and wait,
I will tell you that I loved you,
But by now it's far too late,


You just wanted me to be get better,
You hoped it would never take this course,
I'd say sorry to my friends and family,
But I do not feel remorse,
Anymore.

I just want to drown myself,
In these glass bottles and the liquids they contain,
I'm so tired of being looked over,
I am the boy who feels no pain,

My nerves have been shut off,
This world is just too much,
I've painted my own death,
With this feeble fragile brush,

We made it through three seasons,
I held you through the cold,
We trembled under blankets,
But together we grew too bold,

Apart we are forever,
But together is just this pain,
The heat of the Texas summer,
Turned into Southern winter rain,

I told you that I love you,
But there's something different about your voice,
And in the end of these seasons,
You left me but one choice,

We never made it to the Spring,
Your scent is missing from the breeze,
It was the end of this cold winter,
I watched you grab your stuff and leave.

Someday.

A crisp fall night,
Evident by the gentle breeze,
The calming trees,
And the changing leaves,
Your chair slightly overlapping mine,
We look at each other,
Our subtle embrace grows slightly stronger at the dwindling fire,
as we try to make up for the heat that we are losing,
Your skin is ripe and mine is bruising,
From the pain of letting go,
I knew you wouldn't see the fall,
You were a somber metaphor of the dying fire,
Reaching for something more,
Something to keep you going,
But there was nothing,
The physical attachments of this world seem not to matter as much when the pain is so great,
Sometimes the best thing you can do is let go,
They always said if you love something let it go,
But how can I let you go,
When it is fall,
And my bed is cold.

Children between the ages of six and ten
boys not even close to being men
And you, you call yourself a man?
A man of what, of cowardice
a man of strange
of deranged
thoughts
scared faces
reduced to
scarred hearts
unable to heal
being torn apart
All the pain is too real
The eighteen children too young to know
to go to the unknown
A place set for a person no longer here
Eighteen children you robbed of their lives
put their families through all the fear
For what reason
Children no older than fingers on their hands
no younger than the time on their stands
standing graves for eighteen children
who won't know anymore of a summer breeze
or getting down on one knee
to pledge the love
the same love you took
from families
and victims alike
Causing all the strife
So you call yourself a man
when you stood before
eighteen children
That you put on their death bed
along with yourself
who couldn't listen
to his own **** head.
36 parents who have to
identify their child
who no longer roams free and wild
all because you exiled
The innocence and life
out of eighteen
bight
children
Tell me, what right
did you have
to be given the title
of a *Man

If God is
And if God hates
Does he hate people for loving?
Does he hate an entire people for their equality?
Does he hate all who don't worship him the same way?
Or
If you believe in a vengeful God,
a hateful, punishing God
you must pause and wonder...
would he really hate and wreak vengeance
on twenty innocent children
for their people's tolerance and love of others
or on those who seek to spout hate
Intolerance of any of his creations while
cheering the slaughter of children?

There came a time,
Not far in the past enough for the pain to be numb,
The memories still swirl around in my head,
His hands were on me and nobody heard the screams,
Now every man I see, I see his face,
Somebody tell me how to cope with that,
I relive the trauma,
The scratches and scars,
Now I can't hear a knock on the **** door,
Without alarms going off in my head,
Now tell me how you shielded me from this,
How I was the favorite,
If this was my reward,
I hope I'm your last pick,
I didn't know why he picked me,
I don't know why I didn't tell you,
I just need a moment alone,
To wish this away,
But it never goes away,
I want to go away.