I don't know how to fight you.
I don't want to hurt you. I don't want
To argue, or even to be angry.

How do you do it? How do you
Take all my scars, all of them,
And rip them open like that?

But the worst part is, you bring me
To the verge of all my secrets, till
They're on the tip of my tongue
And dying, just dying, to be told.

You're my brother. And you are
So completely evil. Such lies should
Not have to live in one human being,
Not one so young as you.

You could have been like me. We
Were born with equal chances in life
But where it mattered most, you
Chose instead to take the easy way out.

You might think you're a rebel.
Because you drink. Because you smoke ****.
But it's just what everyone expects, all over again.
A broken record.

So why is it that we are so different?
It's because I grew up without a shadow
Cast over me by you, but rather in the light
That you refused to even see.

The difference is you fight against
The sense of justice in your gut,
And I fight for it.

some people
(like me)
don't necessarily expect
an ending. we just
write and write
and figure we
probably won't ever
run out of words.

other people
(like you)
put an algorithm to it
write an equation for it
comment on style
and tone and metaphor

i know what those words mean
and how and when and why to use them.
i just don't give a **** about stuff like that.

I'll be your best friend and your first kiss
I'll keep you safe from the filth
On the streets and
I'll keep you warm and
I'll keep you safe and steady.

I'll stand beside you when you're weak
I'll stay up all night with you when you're scared
I'll make chicken soup for you when you're sick*, you said.

But you're not here now
And for just $20 and a trip to the store
I can have hot Top Ramen and Matt Damon
And the tangy kiss off cough medicine
As it slides in careful milliliters down my throat

Sixteen is the age everyone always wanted to be.
Sixteen is rebellious, a freshly sparked fire,
A girl and a boy, living forever in the midnight hours.
Sixteen is freedom. Is dancing. Is music. Is life.
Is when you're supposed to be fully you, as best as you can.
Is the year your lips are round and red as apples,
The year your skin and hair is soft and smooth again,
The year your eyes still flash like two great and ancient stars.
At sixteen, I always thought, I'll cup the world in my hands;
At sixteen, finally someone will love me, finally that star will fall,
Finally, finally, I'll be free.

The world's supposed to end couple months after I turn sixteen.
I guess it won't be able to handle me all grown up like that.
But how the hell did the Mayans know?

My grandmother likes her poems neat
She likes them pink and cozy, without heat
She likes them simple and likes them rhyming,
Cute and kept in time-ing.

My mother, she just likes poetry
Doesn't write it, doesn't recite it
Reads it, sure
But not much else.


but me, my poems are all over the place

up




or down

maybe left                                                             ­                        maybe right

i make em whatever the **** i want
so long as they mean somethin real
somethin true, somethin beautiful
not short or sweet necessarily                maybe if i want to

maybe.

not my fault i was born when i was
not my fault i was raised like i was
the world around me is what i make it
here's what i think, go ahead- take it
i can't help it that i'm young
can't help it if i'm dumb
i look at you and try to understand anyways
but you say it's a matter of time, a matter of days,
say i can't be this or that cause of my age
well **** that, tell it to my rage
tell it to the tears the course down my face;
tell it to my people, the whole human race;
tell it to the butterfly who was born yesterday,
say they can't be beautiful cause they'll waste their life away
you can't look me in the eyes and tell me my life
is a waste of space, just meaningless strife
towards goals i'll never achieve
for people that you don't believe
can change the world
hey, watch me do it anyway.