What does it all mean?
Someone once asked
I smiled to show
I don't know

Gotta get out
Of my sock drawer
And into the hats
Cause that's how you get
A head

I know that they're for me
These cookies and iced tea
You set them on a plate
Gotta say, you're looking great
But I came here just for food
And I hope that isn't rude
All these candles by the door
Can I ask you what they're for?
Oh my goodness dear, please no!
Now I've really got to go
Let me out. Unlock this room!
I don't want to be the groom!

I miss you more
Than I thought I would

It's not healthy
And I know I should

Forget you and move on
Oh I wish I could

"You're such a Hipster
You with your poetry
And indie music
And clothing so different"

I use to hate it
When you called me
A hipster
But now I can admit it

I wish you were here
To call me a hipster

Just one more time

I look into her eyes and do not see my sister staring back.
I see a girl that is terrified of life trapped inside a woman.
I see what she's fighting
I see aches and bruises, uninvited *** and drugs consumed against her beautiful will.
I see my idol struggle and turn to me for guidance.
I want her to know peace that does not come from a prayer or priest
I want her to see the sunshine and breathe the wild air
I want her to know therapy that does not come from an office building
I want her to feel the fresh water slip between her fingers and wash her soul clear
I want to look into her eyes and see my sister.

"Simply dont"
Says my mother
But she does not grasp
That I am nearly 17

And "dont" is not
In my vocabulary

Sorry

Writing poems but who are they for?
Are they secret notes to myself
To read
When I'm old and gray?
Are they
(Perhaps)
Simply lyrics to
Songs I'll never sing?
Are they my
Crudest representation
Of
My soul?
Yes they are.
Maybe.
I'm not ceratin.
To be honest
I have
No clue.

Someday, someone might find my poetry
And they'll quote me
To me
And I will tell them they are wrong
But you said it here, they say
And they'll point down at the page of my writing
Sorry, I'll say, I couldn't have written it
I sold my hands to buy cigars
Then I'll light a match
And walk away

Unfair is the world
Unjust are the poeple
There is not much I can do about it
So let us pout

And cry tears
And write angst filled poetry
About how unfair
And unjust
The world is