Suburbia I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
Suburbia three hundred thousand dollars December 1, 2001.
The cost of living’s too high.
We’re all just waiting around to die.
Suburbia when will you unlock your gates?
You've thrown away the key.
You won't even bother to read me.
Suburbia when will you pay attention?
When will you remove your mask?
When will you fall apart?  
When will you fail to live up to your standards?
Suburbia why are you so ignorant?
Suburbia why don't you feel guilty for your privilege?
Suburbia when will you evict me?
I’m sick of your strict covenants.
Why can't I paint my house yellow?
Suburbia after all it is you and I who are white.
You’re sheltering me.
You made me want to paint my skin black.
Can you meet me half way?
Somewhere in between these walls and freedom.
I’m stuck in the middle and I can’t get out of you.
I don’t think I’ll make it out alive.
Will you release me?
Are you telling me the truth?
I will find it.
I refuse to give up.
Suburbia stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
Suburbia your welcome sign got painted over.
Your people have given you a new name.
Suburbia I am sentimental about your driveway on Sunday mornings.
Suburbia I used to be a Catholic when I was a kid and I am sorry.
Suburbia I have blamed you for my depression and I am not sorry.
I challenge you every chance I get.
I've written myself out of you for thirteen nights straight.
I lost my virginity on the first night I snuck out of your house.  
My mind’s been made up since then.
You should have seen me reading Thoreau at the edge of your lawn.
My English teacher thinks I'll write better poetry once I leave.
I won’t stay here for longer.
I have un-American dreams.
Suburbia I still haven’t told you what you did to me.
I'm addressing you.  
Are you going to let the covenants control your identity?
I’m obsessed with individualization.
You roll your eyes when I walk down the street.
I look you in the eyes and smile as you mock me.
Why so serious?
You’re corporate American greed. You are what your money can buy. Your identity is merely a label assigned to you at birth that you’ve been fighting with your whole life.
It occurs to me that I am suburbia.
I do not see my reflection when I look in the mirror.
You are rising against me.
I don’t stand a fighting chance.
I’d better quit while I’m ahead.
Everything I own fits inside this backpack.
So I packed my **** and left for home.
I say nothing about the prisons or the millions of underprivileged who can’t afford you who dwell under the Birmingham Bridge and graffiti littered highway signs.  
You abolished us.
I painted over you now I’m off to play tag with the streets.
My ambition is to feel at home there.
Suburbia how can I make you listen?
Suburbia let me go.
Why won't you let me move on?
I will continue like a white horse in the wild.
Suburbia I will not make the rent this month.
Suburbia free me from your bounds.
Suburbia save me.
Save our people.
They must not dive.
Suburbia I am the only white on the outside.
Suburbia when I was twelve my cousins took me to the ghetto to buy ******* and the sun was sticky and they told me not to keep their secrets.
I felt like a spy.
Suburbia you're no better at fighting the war on drugs.
Suburbia they're shooting up next door.
Suburbia I thought you were supposed to keep me safe.  
Suburbia you want to eat us alive. Your power's mad. You want to take
my neighbors life and keep me as your slave.
You want to put a price on people and places that were never yours to begin with.
You herd black sheep away from your borders.
Your big bureaucracy segregated and destroyed the land.
Suburbia this is quite serious.
Suburbia this is the impression I get from lurking outside your white picket fences.
Suburbia is this correct?
I'd better get right down to it.
It's true I don't support you.
Suburbia I've given you all and now I'm leaving.

Back to try our luck at the American dream
With three suitcases full of fading memories
Stories you don't care to hear
With people once near and dear
Now they've disappeared.

I left a Sydney summer romance
For a transcontinental breakup
In the dead of winter
I'd convinced myself I'd get back what I'd lost
In the lime-light

No where feels like home
But the open road
I'll go at it alone
Through deadzones
Through timezones

I say I'm finally home in Philly
But I say **** I don't mean
They said that's not where you're from
I say I'll start where I am
But I won't end up here.

So I flew out to a West Coast Christmas
To smoke some **** in the sun
But global ruined wrecked my fun

No where feels like home
But the open road
I'll go at it alone
Through deadzones
Through timezones

Now it's always sunny in Philadelphia
And raining in L.A.
The world has took a 180
What else can I say

I can't help thinking that I've done it all wrong
Traveled the world and back
Seen everything there is to see
And I have nothing to show for it
Besides the stolen sand in my suitcase
And faded summer dreams

No where feels like home
But the open road
I'll go at it alone
Through deadzones
Through timezones

I'm finding it difficult to understand
How the words ****** and best friend coincide
And I'm still so set on finding out
Where we went wrong
And how
And I've retraced my every step with an unsure pen
Remembering crisp details through a blurry lens
As I wonder
How a fearless girl
Forgave her worst nightmare;
I wonder how she feared less
With every unsettling reminder;
I wonder if somewhere between
A drunken memory's flickers and fades
She went numb.

The sounds of color buzzed of rhythm and blues
muddling my thoughts around psychedelic tapestries of saxophone.
Our hips shook in figurines
connected by a tight rope of invisible waves
as the sounds of color echoed through colorless boney hips
and sunk into restless souls.
Her moaning had ceased
and so had his heart ache
as we danced a silent disco
before the artwork of a distant time -
outsiders stood in silent shock as we danced
until their headphones
buzzed on cue
and they danced along to the rumbling tide of poetry;
how strange it is to write poetry about poetry.

I don't know what it's like
to live where
the climate doesn't change
where there aren't
empty
           spaces
of
           cold
to fill the void
of warmth
Where I know tomorrow
won't feel anything like yesterday
Where time doesn't stop
Not even for a moment
Where one nice day
Could feel everlasting
but like this thought, ends.
Where every life has a beginning
and ending.
Where nothing is really permanent.
And things can be replaced
easy
as
the weather
in this
confused
town
Mother Nature might be the devil
but she does a satisfactory job of preparing you
for the day that things change.
For the time when time stops.
She does a great job of showing you things
you weren't prepared for.
Think of all the times you've been caught in the rain
without an umbrella
and ran away
instead of
staying to fight
it might not have killed you
but just know
If the weather doesn't **** you
something else will.
All a part of harmony.

A buff of cigar smoke and an autumn in the park candle on a
60 degree December night after my last glass of pink grapefruit sangria.
It is 5:00 a.m.
Christmas is over.
I'm reading a book titled "It's Kind of a Funny Story". The story involved a young man named Craig who enjoys ******* in the dark and drawing Paper Towns.
I cannot tell if I am a part of a funny story or a sad one.
I cannot tell if I am happy or sad.
I can only say that my eyes droop when I'm tired
and my head's a little fuzzy
and Craig's forehead is pretty damp
and so is mine
and the depression is winning.
It is 5:00 a.m.
It is the night after Christmas and we can't sleep.
The air is thick and sweaty.
My brother's girlfriend underlined, "But your relationship with air - that's key. You can't break up with air. You're kind of stuck together".
Now, I don't know my brother's girlfriend but it is clear that Craig and I are not alone in this feeling.
She must have felt it too.
We depressed people - We're kind of stuck together.

My cellphone is a drug.
I need to feel its buzz to know
I will always grab the attention of somebody.
My self worth relies on how many people
Like my self-portrait
Or note this poem.
Somewhere along the way I started to measure my friends
By the number of followers
I had on twitter
Or how many people
Commented upon my profile picture
To tell me I looked beautiful in the light.
I know that I am pretty and
That I could write a decent poem if I tried.
I know that I'm never alone
But I cannot bear this silence.
For more than an hour
My phone has not rung.
No one has called me today.
Am I forgotten?
I cannot sit still
With this possibility ringing through-
With access to nearly a million people
In my back pocket-
How could they all forget me?
I'll admit I am a self-absorbed attention *****;
A product of the 21st century.

I have been saying I've been writing a novel
for years without writing a word.
It is,
perhaps,
my way of making my life feel “in progress”
rather than a sleeve of ash
falling off a lit cigarette.