I'm an extrovert.
We aren't really romanticized in pop culture. Chances are,
your protagonist is a cute introverted girl who has
everyone secretly swooning over her,
but her best friend sidekick is outgoing and talkative.
We autorelate "extrovert" to red solo cups and heavy synthesized bass lines and...
well,
frat boys.
The unpleasant, obnoxious kind. (The ninety-nine percent.)
I guess it's understandable sometimes to see where you're coming from with this assumption, but
let's learn to revise.
Introverts recharge by being alone, but if I'm in a group and suddenly find myself faced with an empty home,
it's like all the oxygen has been ****** from my lungs and shattered my soul.
Being alone means thinking too much and we all know what thinking too much does (--so maybe extroverts need loud music and red solo cups--)
I don't get how someone finds it refreshing, silence and being stuck in your own head, but that's probably because I'm not an introvert and you're not an extrovert and I'd rather have a body than a body pillow next to me in my unmade bed. I like people.
When kids are wearing t-shirts proclaiming the opposite, I get it.
It's pop culture,
it's in to be out but being by myself is when I'm most out of it.
It's hard for me to consistently text you back but believe me when I feel like my brain is about to collapse I'd like to lessen the collateral damage.
After that, I'll start up ten different conversations with three different friends but all of them are introverts whose sleep schedules are inverted from mine, triple check the time, see it with your own eyes, life keeps tick
tick
ticking by and I feel stuck on the sidelines.
I forget to feed myself sometimes (most nights.)
I'm a people person dragged into my own mind that
I forget how to take care of myself.
I'm a people person who can't make friends last to save my life,
forget it if they're already acquainted.
All my friends think they're hated by all my other friends--
You two don't know each other, totally polar social circles, but I know each of you like pieces of my soul,
and I make Horcruxes not from ****** but from memories of late nights and falling asleep on the phone,
out of control
we need something to hold,
so we falsify lasting lovers to have some control over,
like empty stomachs that can't leave us until we say so,
like long showers that can't end until we decide it's us, not them, we should take a break from each other for a while,
like bed sheets that act as open arms holding us until we toss and turn into sleep and asking us to stay a little bit longer in the mornings.
I'm an extrovert.
I can't really explain exactly what that means to me specifically or simply,
it's just that being alone makes me feel lonely,
and nothing on the Internet will ever help me with that.

honestly, baby, who are you?
you can walk all tall all you want to
but honestly, who are you?
nobody cares what comes out of your mouth
and nobody even listens.
nobody knows your name or the stars in your eyes or how they
glitter and shine like the constellations at night
honestly, baby, who are you?

because let's get real here:
no one really has stars in their eyes because no one has ever gotten close enough to anyone's face to determine the constellations
we romanticize eyes like skies and fields and oceans
we claim that the first thing we notice about a person
is their eyes and the stars that reside in them
but let's get real: that's not how it works.
we notice smiles and laughter first
we notice the bands on someone's t-shirt
we notice the way their hair cascades
the way they stand or loud things that they say
we notice their mannerisms and their pose
their scraped-up knees and the brand of clothes that they drape themselves in
eyes are beautiful
no one has ever fully had the same, that I've seen
but no one ever notices them first, because eyes are like secrets
eyes are like windows
you can admire a house from afar
but you have to get close to peek inside
that's the part that we romanticize
it's the ability to approach and appreciate
but if you're just driving by, you aren't going to note a house's windows but rather its architecture and unique colors
whether it's wood panels or brick or stones
you notice the cars in the driveway before you think about the people inside
that's how it is when we think of eyes
because people are like houses
full of secrets and
when you're from the same neighborhood, the floorplans are all similar
but the insides and the paints and the pictures and the residents
are never the same.

one time I read something that said to fall in love with a person's eyes,
because they never change or get old
but I don't think the author of that quote ever thought of cataracts or clouding or colored contacts or blood vessels popping
everyone changes
we're like phases of the moon or the path of the planets around the sun
every single year we shift and grow close or apart
eyes are like stars, some nights they shine but they also fade away for bursts of time
what zodiac were you born under?
does it determine the secrets hidden in your pupils?
the stars that change their place in the night
are just as distant as a stranger's eyes
I hope that's not what people notice about me first

because I might not know who I am
but I know that I'd rather be recognized
as the girl with the band you like on her shirt
or the smile that is somehow contagious
or the laugh that fills a room
I don't want people to notice first
that I'm just another one of the millions of girls with green eyes.
if you're searching for stars, look somewhere else
because the universe makes me feel small
and if I'm gonna go to space then I'm more interested in the black holes
if you're curious, I'm an aquarius
it's a fixed sign but I've never really felt fixed in this world or in time
I'm a traveler of spectrums
I don't really know what that means
but I do know that it's not found within my eyes but rather the fluidity and gracelessness of my motions
it's in my fumbling tongue and off-white teeth
it's in my clothes and the skin underneath
it's in my favorite foods and the things that I drink

I'll walk as tall as I want to
I'll speak so loud that you have no choice but to focus on the things coming out of my mouth
I will continue to search for stars within my own eyes
because if I can't map them myself then I know that no stranger meeting me for the first time ever could.

my eyes are not stars
because I am a supernova
my eyes are not stars
because I am an explosion
my eyes are not stars
because I am made of a collection of chemicals in a state of reaction
and I can barely handle this one combustion
how am I supposed to be a congregation of them?

your eyes are not stars.
remember that.

Sometimes, I wish I had cameras in my eyes so we could look back on these moments and hold them and you could see how you made them golden.
Someone in the future could put my life on the screen,
cut scenes when I go to sleep, special behind-the-scenes of us making these memories
and I could just delete the ones I didn't want to keep.
I would never lose a second.
If my life was a piece of cinematic genius then I might try harder to keep this up:
I'd adjust my angles,
I'd check my volume,
I'd have the perfect songs to sing along to and everyone would buy the soundtrack CD,
if they were
just like me.

But you aren't.
See, I had a better opening verse but when my mind is made up of rhythm and rhyme, everything that isn't written down gets driven away in a ******* metaphorical hearse, the kind that you aren't allowed to ride in yet.
Your job isn't finished until mine is,
car crash collisions, underwater violence, silence, broken heart strings strung on a violin and a bass drum keeping us up to speed. See?
I'm a mash up of bad one-line poems and I'm not slowing down, not for anybody.
I've seen angels with broken halos and featherless wings, trying
so hard to fly but they're as successful as that extinct little kiwi,
who all died trying to fly but, hey, at least they went down swinging because we're
all
slaves
to gravity.
So these angels find spaces in their minds to curl up and sleep.
You've got your body on autopilot and don't you find it exhausting, to just stop trying?

Let's get back to the movie.
By then, we'll be living to infinity, like, for real, not just a symbol on the skin but a time to live.
Immortality.
So watching me breathe will be nothing in the wasteland of time that they will have to waste--
not currently, no, because currently our lives seem so short especially with empty promises of infinities and galaxies and light years away on another inhabited planet a kid like me is saying the exact same things because
there's no more originality,
not in this space,
not in the void of immortality.
And in My Life As A Movie, they'll see me:
standing in the street with you, holding hands and praising bands and feeling alive again,
because now we're aware--
of the angles,
of the volume,
of the sets and costumes,
of the film and the video rules
that I learned in high school.
Now that we know it's all a big production, we'll ruin the show.
Our voices will be whispers or shouts and the microphones will be too scratchy to catch what we're saying.
Our feet will fly like the angels once could, ruining any chance of an easy shoot.
My memories of you
are golden,
and I'd sell my mortality just to keep a good hold on them but I can't.
I don't want to.
Infinities are found throughout our galaxy,
but my only real infinity is you.
You, like a scratched DVD that sometimes slips off the screen because
we have our rough times, too.

I sometimes find myself wishing I had cameras in my eyes,
but then I think I'd rather be blind
so no one else sees you like I do.

The world isn't ready for that yet.

I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.

I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.

i kind of hate poetry, like,
i'm sick of flowery words to avoid straight-up honesty
i'm sick of the deception and the depression
and the predictable rhyme schemes.
i mean, there's that kind of poetry
and that's the kind that i kind of hate.
a lot.
i'm a poet, okay? i'm a poet who likes
flower words with flowery lines
used only to cover up lies about
how much dinner i ate last night
and sometimes i have to admit
that i do kinda dig talking in rhymes.

but i'm really sick of that kind of poetry.
i kind of hate it.

give me poems that speak past their words,
give me poems that fill the air,
give me poems that breath and decompose.
give me girls with dark marbled skin whose voices break out of the cages they're trapped in.
give me boys in high heels.
give me revolution and remaking.
give me poetry.
give me songs.
i'm sick of the romantic stuff.
give me poems pieced together with discontent,
give me poems picked apart by nervous hands,
give me poems that will shatter all former concepts of reality,
give me poems that declare platonic love to an old best friend.
give me poems that have meaning.
real, tangible meaning.
i'm sick of looking at perfectly-formatted pages
that have to use set-up and textual ranges in order to be considered proper poetry.
i'm sick of verses with well-measured lines,
because those are the ones that i can't whisper to myself at night because
i ramble the poems.
i ramble the words.
give me poems that i can fill a room with.

i kind of forgot my first line, but that's alright
see, i don't know where exactly i'm going with this but
that's just how it is.

so give me poems that aren't pre-conceived,
give me poems that aren't thought out for the sake of their beauty.
give me poems that will hurt me.
give me poems that will hit me.
give me poems that will **** me.

i kind of hate poetry,
but not all kinds of it.
just the kinds of poems
that don't seem to notice
their true ability,
cause i like the kind of poems
that have the power
to change a society

(or at least someone's mind about something).

this is a reminder of your right to riot
of your right to assemble and not be quiet
this is a reminder of your right to remain violent
and that the only real enemy is your silence
this
is a reminder.

they say a picture is worth a thousand words
but i think i'd rather have my voice be heard
i'd rather write essays formatted perfectly in MLA
fifteen pages due in two days

i know you'll hear me
might not be listening but when someone's shouting
like this, it's hard to ignore
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
(too short, too tight, baby don't be a *****)

live life loud,
that's why you've got a mouth
if the pen is mightier than the sword
why do actions speak louder than words?
why is it that by faith i have been saved
but faith without good works is dead

according to the voices in my head
everything i want to say has already been said
i'm a mimicker not a poet
i spit back words fed to me on the internet
i spit back facts from media
i spit back spit that hit my face
regurgitation of information is all part of the game

no one can hear you in space
i could press my face to airtight windows
cross my heart and my fingers
spit my screams into dark matter
what really matters

what even matters
evening out the odds of lasting that long
i thought about writing a list of things that make me happy
but then i decided i'd rather write spoken-word poetry
and i think that probably says something about me
spit it back at me, now
spit it back at me
spit it back at me

i know you can hear me
you're probably not listening but now i'm shouting
so loud you can't ignore
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
(too short too tight baby don't be a *****)
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
don't be a bore
don't be a bore
baby baby baby don't let them call you a *****

i'm sick of having to initiate conversations
i'm sick of sending a 'hi' only to get a 'yeah im fine.'
i mean, i don't really mind that you don't care to reply
even a short little "and you?" or "how's your life?"
but, for god's sake, stop killing conversations
i'm the patron saint
of small talk and copper coins
biting lips and stretching for questions
that you won't bother to return the favor for.

i'm sick of initiating conversations,
of second-guessing and wondering
just exactly how annoying i must be,
constantly
sending you updates on what i'm thinking
but when you haven't been replying
it gets me hesitating.
i'm predictable at best
and i'm starting to think that you're discovering
how jaded being with me makes you feel.
i'm the same old story
the same old small talk
the patron saint of lying and faking
it.

i'm sick of losing friends
because my insecurities stop me from speaking
and they have too many other people to be seeing
to even worry about checking in on li'l ol' me.
i'm sick of stuttering my way through
conversations with people who don't give me
anything to say
how am i supposed to answer you
when you refuse to give me more than 3 words about your day?

thanks for the update,
three years late when
i'm finding out all the great things you've been doing
but i'm still the same
the patron saint of small talk again
stuck watching life happening
from behind my screen
maybe that's the real problem i've been having

everyone else is living
and i'm decomposing
i don't have the courage to step outside my home
but god, oh god, i'm sick of being stuck alone