jazz downstairs
and quiet upstairs

that is just enough

"Walk amongst the similes"
Or so her mother said
For there you'll find a garden
Which fosters, like your head

Ideas
Phrases

You'll find the dirt and grass
Of the words
"Like" or "As"
You shall see

Things
Grow

Fire, Earth, Water, and Air
can all be
comparisons there
to Life

Power
Emotion

Perhaps you'll find the people
comparing to each other
not necessarily fighting
just getting to know one another

She is like him
He is like her

I suggest you pick a couple
to nurture in your head
so when you wonder what to write
you'll look to those instead

Of
Nothing

The Heart
beats faster
than the Brain
knows
how to handle

A pen can be an amazing thing

but it is only a tool
it cannot manifest
the churning
of inner gears

First off, it won’t go away
Simple as that
It burrows inside your head
Like a Chinese finger trap
(I’ve never seen one but I know
what they are like)
Or perhaps a camel’s thorn
Another thing I’ve heard of

Occasionally you find relief
Maybe two minutes or even less
Maybe up to five hours
But it always comes back
At least for that day

You want to scream
To plead, to cry, to beg it to stop
But of course it won’t
It’s OCD, are you kidding?
Of course it won’t
No matter how hard you try
And believe me, you do try

You try not to compulse because
You know that’ll make it worse
You imagine a drill going
Through your brain, destroying your thoughts

It’s illogical, but that’s OCD
Normally, when things are illogical
You don’t trust them
You brush them aside
Knowing they aren’t true
That they can’t be

But with OCD you believe it’s true
And you don’t want it to be
And it might not be
But it also might be true
And as the day goes on
You’re more and more afraid
That it is

You live in fear of yourself
For you are hating yourself
Your possible truths
You tell yourself
That you aren’t your thoughts
Thoughts aren’t actions
But you can never be sure
Of what you think

It’s the doubting disease
Leaving scratches up your forearm
And that’s why
It’s ocd

My skin is imperfect
My eyebrows uneven

But so what?

I am imperfect
I am uneven

There are good bubbles
and there are bad bubbles

the good ones come
at an engagement
a promotion
a finishing

the bad ones
are the ones inside me
all the time

i am drowning in a bathtub
that is far too deep

the clicking of the keys
spells out
the beat of the heart

I know
I’m not supposed to
Cling to the past
But I can’t
Get ahold
Of the present

Dear You,
If you are reading this
Whoever you are
I just want to let you know
I am so proud of you
you've come so far
and I love what you are writing

keep going

From,
Your fellow Writer

I can't remember
what we had
last night

I only have things
that feel like dreams
For it was too good
to stay with me

Your hand in mine
with the view
I took you to
pretending
I'd never been there
so we could share
our joy
of discovery
as the sun
began to set

And then
the clouds came in
and faded
any truth
of us

Did we happen?

You know your brain is collapsing
when you doubt your doubt
when you are uncertain about uncertainty

I am supposed to "embrace the uncertainty"
but how can I embrace it
if I don't even know if it is
uncertainty
at all

This is beyond
what is not
Death and Taxes
this is beyond
that beyond
because you don't know
if the doubts
are even true
if they're even you

at all

Do you ever think
of a poem
that's amazing

and you're sure you'll remember
to write it down

but you won't

if
   you'd
              like
                      to
                           Change
                                           me
                                                        Then
                                     double
                              click
                         to
                 Edit
           my
                                           thoughts

Have you found your way
To your Garden of Eden?
Walking on the gravel
Of your self-made path

The stars have emerged above you
As you enter your land of joy
The voices of your future
Begin to grow in laughs

You will soon laugh with them too
Perpetually

And yet, what have you
left behind?
The echo of your past
My voice
missing you,
longing for you,
Fading into black
The tears forming a stream
That you can go across

And I, what was I?
A pause in your journey?
A consideration of your story
That was eventually pushed away?

And so
As you get closer to your Garden
As the cross-hatched landscape
is fading into mist
The colors will get brighter
And more beautiful
And I
Will be already

Gone

There is no escape
From your mind
You cannot throw it away
No matter how much I want to

I know exactly
How we died
Because I
Was the one
That killed us

I turned your letter away from me
I can no longer see the content.
All I have
Is a shell of your words
That I hope
to throw out
some day

The flowers
in his heart
are grey
and wilted

He is looking
for someone
to water them
again

I choose grey markers
I cannot choose colored ones
That would be a lie

I take her name because it is other names
of those who I admire
who I love

I take her name now because
of her
I can no longer name
my child that name

I take her name
Because it allows me
to be
a person
who is better than me

It allows me
to pretend
I am her

He took my words and laughed at them
as if they were a joke
as if my inner workings
and my inner hurting
was the funniest thing

He took my words and laughed at them
wilting me inside
I worked so hard
to make them alive
and he smashed them
to smithereens

He took my words and laughed at them
this poem is my revenge

If you died tomorrow
could I write your obituary?

It would start of course
with your name, birthday,
the day you died
what school you went to

I could say the Before
you had two dogs and a cat
you loved to rock-climb
and do logic puzzles

Math was your thing
it never was mine
your hand always shot up into the air
faster than I could think

You liked doing back bends, and flips
with me supporting you, on the lawn
we floated from friend group to friend group
not really staying, or clinging on

You invited me to a sleepover
just you and me
before our seventh-grade dance
sleeping on your floor
as happy as can be
we had no secrets to tell
as we fell asleep

we were that close

And then
came the After
now that I could not write

I guess I could say

"She got straight A's in high school
and had many friends.
She had inside jokes
with the people she met"

I think

Writing the During
would be just too painful

what could I say?

It was a text
then a letter reply
You couldn't "thank me enough"
For what we had

That's not an obituary
I can't write that

I could write the Before
and then pass it on
to your new friends, any friend
because for me, you are gone

except for the sliver in my heart

Survived by mom, dad, and younger sister

I miss being a crayon
when I had the certainty
of being liked by them
the fantasy so believable
that I believed it with all my heart

I miss being a crayon
when she and I laughed together
created together
shared our thoughts, quotes, and ideas
together

I miss being a crayon
when we had moments of
unity
collaboration
laughter that I could easily
be a part of

it was nice

I miss being a crayon
but now I am a pencil
less colorful
wavering
able to be whittled
and sharpened
and full of potential

She said
that we
Were mean

She was right

I'm sorry

I need you to tell me that I’m okay
I need you to tell me there’s hope
I need you to tell me that I’ll get better
I need you to tell me I’m not hopeless
I need you to tell me you will help me

With my broken soul
A star split in half and shattered

I need you to tell me that I’ll get through this

She sits in a
Cafe with her
Laptop open to a Page.
Plate empty with Crumbs
Coffee almost finished.
She ordered
a Cappuccino
not a Latte
wanting to watch her Weight
just in case

She planned for this Time
where she could wait for
Inspiration to strike. It hasn't Yet.

Ignoring her Needs
to finish that Paper
those Problems
take those Notes from the day she missed Class.

So this Window of Time
could be here
with the remainder of her Cappuccino growing cold
So she could be a Writer
and not a Student
a Worker
for this Window of Time

Yet now
it seems worthless
to schedule for Now
when the Inspiration still has
Yet
to Strike

He sits across from her
their knees brush
but their hands don’t quite touch

I saw you today
it had been so long
Too long? Who knows
but anyhow

Our eyes caught
Yours brown
Mine blue-green
Spinning an eternity
between us

You nodded, I think
didn't smile
I'm not sure if I nodded back
but who knows

Libraries are romantic
They are piles and shelves of words of love
and lust
Stacks full of secrets
a kiss discretely
Hands grasped
stories told

Could we have been that kiss, those hands?
maybe, but who knows

I have written your name so many times
Scratched you out until you are, were
nothing but words and hopeless yearning

and yet now, here you are
With your nod
Those eyes

an eternity between us

Broken
by the books
I still have to shelve

He says he wants to be
A melody

But I think
I’m living
As a verse

I wonder
if she too
is looking at
the moon

But I’m pretty sure
no one
is wondering
about me

I try to climb
to the peak
of Mount Enough
but never
seem
to get there
in my mind

I met Ms. Brooks just today
Her voice sounded so bright
Filled with pain, and hope, and life
showing darkness, not just the light

She sat me down and showed me her tools
They had all kinds of names.
Like "Volta" and "Cacophony"
Not a single one sounded the same

Then she showed me "kitchenette"
Hammered, filed, and whittled to be
it showed a world that stifled any thought
of Hope, or Want-- It startled me

I shook her hand and took her work
Filing it in my brain
Trying to remember all those words
So that the power remains

You have no idea
How simple
It is to make my day

Perhaps you’ll ask me
Where something is
Or tell me when I ask

Perhaps you won’t sit
As far away from me

Maybe you’ll even
Sit close

Perhaps you will open
The circle a little wider
So there’s room for me to stand

Perhaps you’ll just look at me
Not over my shoulder
So our eyes catch
Our selves joined
For just a millisecond

Or perhaps
Best of all
You’ll smile
At me
(Not her, nor him)

And I will smile back

You took my heart
and ripped it in two
because everything
you said about me
was true

It's just one moment
of forgetting
and then suddenly
the world is ending

My poems seem to have been
torn
apart
the edges frayed
the phrases broken
unable to be put
back
together
again

Sometimes I feel
that Poetry
is the only one
that understands

I realized just today
that we can never be real
that we must stay
imaginary

for inside my head there are no problems
within us
or in
our imaginary world
I only hear our laughter, see our smiles
in place of anger and tears

inside my head I'm never scared
for you or me, you and me
everything is flawless
we talk, and then we see

the truth
each other
everything clear

and in the real world, well
there are sharp edges on which we will trip
knives that we will create and use to cut ourselves
practicalities
of my fear and shame

things that would never exist inside my head

so thus, with a heavy heart
I must keep us imaginary
so that we
can
never
be

real

You gave me every chance
and I burned them all down

Remember
that the inside
is often surrounded
by the outside
that tries to hide it

They sit in a circle
And every seat is taken
Except the one next to you

I know we shattered
because you moved away
and I didn't bother to call you

I know we shattered
because one day I came over
and you weren't the you that I knew

I know we shattered
because we drifted apart
and I don't know
what happened to you

I know we shattered
because I only texted
for me and not for you

I know that we shattered
because I f*cked up
and you are still a part
of my broken heart

and I am now surrounded
with shards of glass
and my hands

                                    D
                         ­           r
                               i        p
                             p          i
                                 n  g

blood
and staining the floor

Once you reach
a certain age
you will wonder
which faces will fade
which friendships will die
and what memories
will become
only sparks

Words spilled out of my heart
When you broke it in two
I take them to write poetry
Loving, hating, and missing you

in the streets there are
many people sleeping and
many scared to sleep

The best words
and lines
and moments
I cannot use

they are too personal
precious
private
to ever be heard
seen
by anyone


but me

She makes it through the day
and then she gets scared again