I think
I have good taste
in music,
since I have studied it
formally,
but it occurs to me
that my taste
is sometimes
in my mouth
and that I am a phony
sometimes
about what
I really like,
for example
I used to listen
to "Twenty First Century Schizoid Man"
and loved it,
but I had
a secret crush
on Captain and Tenneille's
"Love Will Keep Us Together"
and I wouldn't tell anyone,
because it wasn't correct
to like it,
so, I am a closet fan
of Madonna,
even though
I'm not supposed to be,
and liked Prince and Michael Jackson
which, at the time,
I wasn't supposed to,
because if I told
my friends,
they would thumb
their noses.

A heart is such a funny thing, it moves to its own beat,
A thrumming, drumming, pulsing thing, that's pumping blood and heat,
And though it is a part of me, I still feel disconnected,
The heart that lives inside my chest knows it has been rejected,
And so it sits, yearning for you, and here I am beside it,
My thoughts a blur, my heart a-stir, for love that's unrequited.

I've never looked at you the way you look at me
Like I shouldn't have ever left my room
Should I stay home so that you don't see me and get angry?

Are you bothered because you don't understand how I could be happy?
Are you bothered because society says I'm supposed to be miserable in this situation, but I'm not?
Are you bothered because I'm breaking the rules,
I'm not following the path, I've thought outside the box?
Are you bothered because I can accept what life throws at me?
Are you bothered because you'll never feel as content as I do,
Even with the hardships I face?
Are you bothered that I'm not worried?
Do you just not know how to feel unafraid?

why am I judged so harshly

My heart is breaking for the rest of humanity
Why do I come home and cry
When I've never felt so beautiful?
I guess I just don't understand
How making other people feel small
Could make you feel big

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

                

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

                  

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean
But be.

the sage who finds his buddha
in a bowl of hot noodle soup

So it’s getting to that time of year
Where I dream of you endlessly
With a gun against your head
And I can’t believe
It’s going to be 8 years that you’ve been dead

I hope you know
You turned my life upside down
How many stupid things I did
Because I had let you down

I didn’t see the signs
And I’m sorry for that
So ******* sorry that you’ll never know
I’m still waiting for your reasonings
A letter that’ll never come
But I’m still breathing to make you proud
Have I done that?
A college graduate at 22,
Have I done that?
Beating an eating disorder and this **** depression too.

Ill never know.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I watch out for the signs now.
Because suicide ended your pain
And started mine.