you were blue
and i am yellow
you liked the way
i brightened rooms
i thought we could
make a home run true
but no winning evolved
while our garden bloomed
for as my love for you grew
it expanded way beyond you

and it wasn't long
before you knew
exposing your true
shades of gray
when you touched me
but you looked her way
you decided olive green
just didn't look good on you

i have always preferred
green over purple
and you once told me
you felt the same
but that one night
where you both lied
you chose the latter
you took her side

and i’m not sure
if it's because
she appeared shiny red
and i was becoming
a worn out yellow
but it shouldn’t have mattered
because you plucked me first
and you and i both know
that's not what you do
to flowers when you love them
you were supposed to water me
but you showered her instead

and now i am left here
trying to heal the paper cuts
i got from the countless times
i ran in circles trying
to catch your racing heart
but it barely ever
grazed my fingertips
and each time i looked down
to see what was left
of you and me

i was struck in the face
with the sad reality
that we had never even
made it off of home base

i took your eraser and rubbed the poem i wrote for you away.

it was near dawn when i wrote our "i love you" on both sides.

i still haven't given it back.

.
.
.

maybe next period.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

The best writing is that which
Is raw, the kind of raw that oozes out of cupcakes,
And the kind of raw that is bright bubble gum pink on meat.
The kind of writing that the poet doesn’t
Think all the way through with their mind,
But has been thinking about for months
In their heart and just couldn’t find the
Words to say it.
Because poems that are raw aren’t just ugly;
They’re beautiful.