I hope he sleeps well
with no bad dreams tonight

I hope he sees me when he closes his eyes
and knows that I care

That his sleep is filled with nothing but sweetness
and his thoughts are kind and gentle

I hope he thinks of me before his head falls to his pillow
and knows that I will be thinking of him

That his slumber is graced with tender kisses
and that he is not woken abruptly

I hope the demons that haunt him leave him be
if only for the night

I hope that upon waking he knows
that I have been visiting him in his sleep,
making sure he makes it home safely by morning

cover me in bruises
make me feel your love
strap me down and inject yourself into my bloodstream
feed my addiction, I don't want to quit you
I want to be baptized in your waters
cover my body in kisses and sweet nothings, ****** and bruised,
and send me down the river

he isnt even worth a poem

The detergent that smells like you gives me a rash

He was my first mistake
I was young, impressionable
this was information he was well aware of

A soft yet firm peach torn from the branch before it was fully ripe
coarsely bitten into, intentionally bitten into
then discarded

The bruises on my knees and scrapes on my elbows remind me of that
He was the first mistake

Why I didn't change the locks
Why I didn't say no
why I didn't insist on no

Is this my fault?
Was he my fault?

He was a ravenous shark
and I even told him that
sharks have to eat too, he said

my mother always taught me not to talk to strangers
but Ted Bundy had an enticing smile and electric eyes

I changed the locks
I bandaged my knees
I should have listened to my mother

I have burned all of your letters,
and I am bandaging my wounds.

I do not want to see you anymore.
You now mean nothing to me,
just as I have meant nothing to you.

Your name no longer fills my mouth with sweet tasting wine,
only blood falls from my tongue at its utterance.

I do not want to see you anymore.
I am repairing what remains of my sorry heart,
and I am casting you out.

I have burned all of your letters,
just as you have burned me.

Skin similar to that of a crocodile.
Smell of stale cigarettes and boxed wine suspended in the air like an infant's mobile.

Eyes sunken so far they hide amidst the shadows of their sockets.
Sleep is but a poorly understood concept,
like love, and death.

The clothes of several days ago have grafted to the skin.
Lips as cracked and barren as the dry desert ground,
eyes as deep as the abyss, equally as empty.

She stopped caring for herself, as you stopped caring for her.
A once beautiful, lively creature, remains motionless on the floor,
underneath a night sky of great uncertainty and hopelessness.

What did you honestly expect?
Teenagers never think about anyone but themselves,
     selfie generation ring any bells?
They never give to the community, only take.

Thirty hours of hard work, but you're right.
I did give, but not as much as I took.

I gave my free time, but I took moments to cherish.
I gave my hard work, but I took countless warm smiles and thank yous.
Gave my energy, my devotion, and took an experience that will stay with          
     me for many years to come.

So, you are correct, nay-sayer of youth,
I am part of the "selfie generation"-
that is true. I do think about myself,
and I do take from my community.

Even though I did give, I agree with you, because
everything I gave to the community,
     the community gave back to me,
and for that, I am grateful.

Maybe it is that I am in love with you,
or perhaps I am simply in love with the sadness.

I haven't written you a poem in a while

I've built myself a box;
there I intend to stay.
It's full of books and tea and things
that keep my pain at bay.

I've saved enough room for you,
in case you have the time.
If not, that's fine, but it's still here,
if you ever change your mind.

I've built the box to hide myself
from everyone I see.
I know it's rather immature,
but I'd rather be with just me.

Though I know you'll never join me,
I've still saved you a place.
You said yourself, you like me lots,
but you really need your space.

I need mine too, so I've built this box,
to keep the world away.
Now you're outside, but one day
I hope you choose to stay.

Today, I wrote a poem, and it rhymed.
And for a few minutes, I felt like I'd be okay.

My friends are obsessed with sadness.
Sick with madness.

Writhing and twisting in their own **** and ****.
And they love it.

They prefer rivers cried over symphonies written.
A sick and demented way to live.

Perhaps they are bored.
Maybe they have nothing better to do than wallow.

They take so many ropes so easily untangled
and weave them into intricate afghan patterns
that even granny wouldn't dare try.

To be honest, it's a little embarrassing,
seeing them intentionally engulfed in their own flames.

At the same time though, why should I care?
If they want to be sad, fine. It is their way.

Just don't drag me down when the ship
really starts to sink.

Dear community:

I apologize for not being good enough.

Have a nice day.

I came in third place in a race.
The winner of the race shook my hand,
congratulated me,
then reminded me that I lost.

I was happy for him, of course.
He ran fast. Good for him.
But he needn't push his gold in my face.

My bronze contented me plenty;
now it feels worthless and *****.
I feel dumb for thinking third place
was worth acknowledging.

I don't run, there was no race.
This is just a stupid analogy
about a stupid kid who made me sad
because he did better.

This is the most blunt poem/love letter/apology I will ever write you.

I love you.

The way you smell,
the sound of your laughter,
your god awful handwriting.

I sleep with my phone by my ears in case you decide
you aren't tired and would like to talk.

I'm not sure this even qualifies as poetry.

I'm sorry I ****** up.
You know I'm better, I know I'm better.
I know we're better.

I'm too nervous to write your name and I love you
in the same poem/love letter/apology.
I'm sorry, I'm not there yet.

Maybe someday.

you've always reminded me of alcohol;
the way you are sweet,
yet you still make the cuts in my mouth burn.

you are the smell of cigarette smoke,
to a rebel teen with asthma.

I haven't written you a poem in a while.

your indecision gives me indigestion.

I don't need you, I want you.
I want your skin close to mine
and your lips interlocked with mine.

yes, these are all things you need to hear.

I am scared of the "l word"
but we both know that's what this is.

I'm too scared of redundancy
to write your name.

maybe I need you.

O, dear friends, it is time to hide.

Time to hide the alcohol, for she is ready to drown her sorrows with every drop.

Time to hide the razors, for she wants desparately to cry from her veins.

Time to hide her father's gun, for she craves revenge.

Time to hide her ex-lover, for the whole situation has made her tense and unpleasant.

Time to hide her ex-lover's new mate, in case we don't hide her father's gun well enough.

And finally, dear friends, it is time for us to hide. And wait.

My friend, put down your weapon.
It is out of your control, she isn't here anymore.
She moved on after you left, don't you see?
There is no need to wage war on yourself.

Please put down the gun.
Do not blame her for moving on, you left.
It is not the fault of the one she left with-
in fact, this has nothing to do with her.

No, this has to do with you, and you alone.
Do not write wish lists wishing suffering to anyone,
it does no one any good whatsoever.

Take care of yourself, put down the knife.
You are a victim of circumstance,
do not become the criminal.

We are your neighbors, we are your friends.
We hide in the cracks in your hetero-normative society.
We do not need your representation,
we do not crave your voice.
Thank you, we have our own.

Ours is a voice you simply won't listen to,
but we can fight our own battles.
We live in the underground subculture you pushed us into,
and now we're ready to resurface.

We're coming up fast and we're coming up strong,
and no, we won't be quiet about it.
We won't conform to fit into the hetero-normative
graves you've already dug for us.

Don't ask who the "man" is in the relationship.
We're complex and complicated, and no, we won't give that up
just so you can have a "gay best friend."

Your stereotypes can't hurt us anymore.
At the end of our "limp wrists" are clenched fists,
and baby, we're aiming to make your nose bleed.

Don't try to stand for us, stand with us.
Raise your voices with ours, do not
rise above us to save us.

We don't need your salvation and
we don't need your approval.
If you're trying to speak for us,
you can keep your "same love" to yourself.

You can call us the new wave beat generation,
due to the fact that we're sick of being beaten down by your *******.
We'll beat the institutionalized hatred you've been beating us with.

Warning: you may experience some slight discomfort.
After a while, they tell you that it's expected.
At least, that's what they tell us.

They tell us that it's easier to hide who you are and
who you love than to express that love.
And when we do express that love
they tell us we should've just kept
it in the closet where it came from.

Either that or we're supposed to allow you to
make our love so small that it could fit in your palm of your hand.
Go on, say, "*** a gay couple, they're like, SOOO cute!" We dare you.

We've got Kerouac on the backs of our hands
and generations of pain building from the backs of our hearts.
Don't push us to the back of your mind,
because we'll build until you burst.

Just like we're bursting with rage;
an age old pain caused by your ignorance.
But we're ready to end it, end the violence we inflict on ourselves
because our sexuality makes you uncomfortable.

And we can't have that, now can we.
You? Uncomfortable?
Please, allow us to sacrifice our human dignity,
so you don't have to be uncomfortable.
Because, let us tell you, it is so comfortable to not have equal opportunities as you!

Yes, we still love you.
We are your friends, we are your neighbors.
We still call our mothers to complain about our jobs.
But this **** has got to stop.

And now we leave the choice to you:
either help us or get the hell out of our way,
because we're burning this system to the ground,
whether you like it or not.

She always has the rights words, tucked behind her ear.
Her ballerina feet dance on broken glass.
She'll be gone soon.

She flies with clipped wings.
Falling, scraping every inch of the sky,
until we scrape her off the pavement.

In the center of the lake sits the mermaid,
running bleeding fingers through tangled masses of hair.
Tears streak her hazy face like hazel clouds streak the sky.

She does not understand the consequences
of unrequited love.
Hers are not the bloodied feet.

It is the ballerina's turn to go.
She bows, gracefully, then jumps out the window.
The crowd falls silent; she is bleeding on the floor.

The mermaid's screams fill the air.
Her cries flood the ears of passersby
as water floods her lungs.

She is swimming to shore
to reunite with the ballerina.
The toxicity of unrequited love catches up with her.

The mermaid pulls herself out of the water
and onto the pavement.
This is her swan song.

Legs. You deceive me.
I told you dear legs,
do not falter.
Yet hear we are, shaking.

Heart. Calm down, please.
It's fine, my brain has sufficient
amounts of oxygen.

Stomach. There is nothing
to throw up. Stop trying
to make it happen.

Arms. You aren't even
involved in this.

Head. It is your job to
keep everything together.
You got this.

When you tell me I have thunder thighs,
your intention is to offend.
However, I take this high compliment, and I thank you.

Thunder is the most powerful source in the world.
It can bring even the strongest man to his knees, weeping.
When you tell me I have thunder in my thighs, I thank you.

Thunder roars and those in its presence fall dead, silent, powerless.
You are essentially telling me that my thighs have enough
power to absorb any and all power, and for this I thank you.

You must think this is an insult because you're scared of thunder,
scared of power. Of my power. I feed off your fear and
my energy increases, and as it does so, I thank you.

I harness the thunder in my thighs and use it
to scream when my voice isn't loud enough.
For the dramatic decibel increase, I thank you.

I have more thunder in my thighs alone than
you have coursing throughout your whole being.
So, go on, call me thunder thighs, I'll only thank you.

Her name is Katie.
But you'd never be able to tell by looking at her.
Her hair has the electricity of lightning,
and power gushes from her eyes.

She is wild, untamed.
But you'd never know that from her name.
The name Katie suggests that she does as she is told.
Suggests that she is a cookie cutter cutout,
sugar snap princess.

But Katie is a rebel.
She will take your heart and she will rip it out.
No shame, no mercy.
You'd never find out until it's too late.

I wrote a poem today but I left the paper in the back pocket of
my jeans and it went through the wash.

you (singular) ask me if i am mad at you (singular).
the answer is no;
i am not mad at you (singular).

i am mad at you (plural).
she is a punk rock goddess;
you (singular) are a soft and fragile mermaid.

you (singular) do not belong with her.
you (plural) make a tragic pair;
like diet coke and rubbing alcohol.

maybe i should let it go.
you (plural) are out of my hands;
i shouldn't have to bother myself with you (plural).

so please do not ask again if i am mad at you (singular).
you (singular) know the answer;
yes, i am mad at you (plural).

you have not ever known love.
she is not love, you do not love her.
she does not love you.

you only think you feel better.
she is only a sugar pill.
you are the same for her.

you are the puzzle pieces that don't fit.
still we try in vain to make them fit
where we want them to be.

she does not love you.
you do not love her, she is not love.
you have not ever known love.

Do not call yourself poet,
you have not earned the title.
Your pathetic mind produces phrases,
unworthy to be called poetry.

Do not tell me you were meant to be.
You are not a poem,
she is not a poem.
Together you do not make poetry,
you are two lines that do not flow.

Do not tell me I am jealous,
you owe your love to my courage.
If it weren't for me, you would still be
at a loss for words.

Once, I was happy.
I was a poet, and I was full of love.
I laughed at the sun, who shown no brighter than me.

I had a hand to hold:
a fragile glass piano hand, but she was mine to hold.
Though she did not shatter, she slipped out of my hands.

Now her fragile glass piano hands run through hair not my own.
Her gaze falls on not my face, but the
faces of others.

I curse at the sun, who mocks my sufferable misery.
My writing dwindled, my drinking amplified,
and I became a drunken poet.

The children throw stones at me,
the lovers weep for me.
The mothers pray their babies will never become me.

Perhaps one day her fragile glass piano hand will slip back in place with me,
but until then,
a drunken poet remains.

How dare you use Frank Sinatra against me.
Everything else, fine, but
Frank was mine.

I'm sick to my stomach.
You stabbed me with the dullest blade possible.
It's in deep, and I'm bleeding everywhere.

But you can't use Frank Sinatra in this battle,
it's absolutely cruel.

I gave you Frank in love, and you use him in hate.
I have never been so disgusted with you as I am now.

I want my Frank Sinatra albums back, you don't
understand the real meaning of love.

The smell of oil paint;
I'm ready to fly
home.

My wings are clipped,
my lungs full of water.
No, I don't need you.

My fingers are numb from holding on,
I'm letting go.

It's easier falling out of the sky
flying beneath your rays had grown old.

You sold my wings,
I'm drowning.

Gasping for air, gasping for air,
push me further down.

The sound of your rustling wings,
surrounded by water,
I'm going
home.

So, here I am, Thanksgiving, nine o'clock.
Drinking cherry ***** and Diet Coke in my basement, thinking about you.
I want to call you, tell you the honest-to-god truth that I love you,
but I'm drunk and you're gone.

So I wish you were here too, Thanksgiving, nine o'clock.
Being drunk and silly and dancing and kissing.
But it's just me, being drunk listening to Ladies of Cambridge on repeat.

So I really want to call you and let you know that I thought of you
at least twenty-seven times each day this week,
but I won't because I'm drunk and nervous.

So I am writing poetry alone in my basement
on Thanksgiving, nine o'clock, drunk.
Vampire Weekend makes good company, I wish you were here.

My feet are bruised and my toes are blue.
I fell asleep on the floor, listening to the Beatles
with the lights on,
thinking of you.

Flowers sit atop my head as I rise
from my slumber.
Were you not here at one point during my repose?

Yes, you were here, as I recall,
dancing on the air around me.
I watched you fall from your spot in the sky,
as I slept underneath.

You frequent the space I occupy, but only in my slumber.
You have the tendency to evaporate upon my stirring.
This, darling, is why I cannot afford insomnia,
for I would never see you.

Which is why I fell asleep thinking of you,
listening to the Beatles
with the lights on, on the floor,
with bruised feet and blue toes.

Trying* to write with a broken pencil.
Trying to fly with clipped wings.
Trying.

I'm trying to talk to you, but there is
a door between us.
I'm trying to open it, but it's locked from the inside.

Like trying to come up with the next line of a poem,
you're on the tip of my tongue.
Roll off my tongue and dance in my ears,
at least say you'll try.

Today I wrote your name in a Bathroom Stall
with the blue sharpie that was in my back pocket.
If my mother knew, she would probably cry,
and if my father knew he'd tell me his hope that it's "just a phase."
But you're not temporary, just like the blue sharpie I used to write your name.
I felt like a young rebel writing those three little letters for all to see.
More than likely nobody would notice, and those who did wouldn't care, but
that doesn't change the way I feel about you, or the way I felt when
I wrote your name in a Bathroom Stall.

You don't smell like
Febreze anymore
but instead butter noodles
and I'm terribly allergic

I would call you
butter noodle cat
but that is too long
and I'm tired

I'm sorry, I don't know how to say this, but
I believe I can see your heart breaking.
Sure, laugh it off, she's just one of the girls-
smile and bat those pretty lashes one more time.

But my eyes know better than to fall for that smile of yours.
I can see that pathetic muscle, pulsating in your chest.
It's close to falling out, if you let it beat so rapidly.

You wear your mask so well, my dear friend, yet to
my eyes, it is sheer, hiding absolutely nothing.
How, you may ponder, can I and only I see the truth?

The answer is, though simple, rather pitiful.
I can see your heart breaking in this way because
my heart has done the same.

So often we crave what we cannot have,
the golden apple, too high out of our reach.
I'm afraid to say, she's out of your reach, especially
considering her Amazonian height.

It doesn't have to end all that badly.
Reach for a closer star, or build a better
rocket and go get the one you're after.
She certainly is a star, isn't she.

It was painted in glowing stars,
and the room was very dark.
I couldn't see where I was going,
but I thought I was limitless.
Those stars were real to me, and they
were closer than ever.
And I was going to touch them,
I was going to be among them,
but they were just an illusion.
Why did I think I could reach the stars
when I should've known that
they're really a false reality
and dreams don't come true
because the stars aren't real,
but only glowing specks of paint on closed doors.

If I had the courage I would tell you
that I like the way your hair looks
and that you smell really nice and
that I want to order a pizza and
watch movies and cuddle on the
couch until we fall asleep together
with the tv still on, but I'm too
scared that you don't want the
same things I do.

but I couldn't let you know what my poems are really about.
If I told you the truth, then you'd know that sometimes I ignore your words
because I'm too focused on your lips.
You'd know that every time we're together I forget we'd ever been apart.
I would have to tell you that they're all about you.

You'd know that I'm hopelessly in love with you, and
that I have been hopelessly in love with you for years.

If I had told you what my poems are honestly about,
I would have to tell you that your smell is my Amortentia
and your smile is my melting point.

When you asked me that night the topic of my poetry,
I could not bring myself to tell you that
my poems are about you because
your poems might not be about me.

Sometimes when I'm by myself
I like to think about you
(really it's most of the time I'm not a very good liar).

I guess you smell pretty good
and I like the way your hair feels in my fingers
(I want to bottle your smell and keep you close to me).

My favorite place to fall asleep is with you
between my arms on the couch
(if it were possible I would never leave that spot).

When you laugh I get kind of happy because
your laugh is cute and then you're smiling
(the happiness radiated through your smile and laughter is contagious).

Your hands are soft and sweet looking
and your lips are pretty much the same way
(I want to stay with our hands and our lips intertwined).

Other girls don't compare to you because
you're smart and funny and pretty
(the eyes of my heart are blind to everyone but you).

I think you're very sweet and cute and smart and fun and
maybe I sort of like you kind of
(I am madly and hopelessly in love with everything about you).

I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.

I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?

But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.

Another poet wrote a poem today,
and it was riveting.
Each word, an intricately carved figure into an ornate pattern.
Every syllable, singing the beloved song I never thought I'd hear again.

My soul transcribed onto paper.
I could feel my heart taking flight with each rhyme,
soaring by the end of the poem.

Of course, myself being a fellow poet,
these thoughts remained in their place of origin, though unwillingly.
How could I, a fellow poet, succumb to his talent?

Did he recognize that glimmer in my eyes,
the sparkle of childlike admiration?

Or, upon looking into my eyes, could he see fire,
the burning heat of my jealousy?

I loathed him; how was it that he was so moved with talent,
and I, a piteous poet who failed to move so much as a single soul?

He took to poetry as a bird takes to the sky,
so beautiful as to leave my stomach in knots
and my head reeling.

The strangest sensation came over me,
when I read the other poet's work.
A sensation of simultaneous beauty and disgust,
a deep longing and loving, intertwined with
the greatest disdain.

I handed back the paper,
conflicted by my own inner turmoil.
These darkest of feelings remained where they first lie,
never to be known by another poet.

I'm so proud of you,
she said to herself.

A mother and father
laughed in the distance,
embracing a young woman.

School books laid all around her,
but the only friendly face in sight
was her own.

The happy family entered the house,
raving about a show they saw that night.
We're so proud of you,* cooed the mother.
The father beamed with pride.

She crept down the stairs,
and met the happy family
in the kitchen.

The family stared back at her,
as if she did not belong.

Tests and papers with high marks lined
every cabinet, the table, and the refrigerator.
Theater medals and trophies had a glass showcase of their own.

She sighed heavily and went back to her room,
littered with thick books and journals.

I'm so proud of you,
she said to herself,
because no one else would.

The scent of cigarette smoke
and laundry detergent
enters my nose once more.

It reminds me of the times
when you and I
were better.

The way our hands intertwined
for those glorious moments of harmonious nothing,
then we whispered sweet goodbyes, until our next meeting.

It reminds me of the days
when you wanted to
sit next to me.

When we didn't have to do anything,
except exist.
And we were perfectly happy.

I don't smell it much any more,
that cigarette smoke and laundry detergent.
I miss it.

You and I met not too long ago.
Though our hands never touched,
I could smell the cigarette smoke and laundry detergent.

I change my outfit at least four times before I hang out with you.

Every time you say "shut up" and I say "make me" I want you to kiss me.
The reverse also applies.

Most of my poems are about you.
So are most of my thoughts.
That's not creepy.
A little bit creepy.

I have liked you for as long as I've known you.
I will always like you.
No, I will always love you.
So, yes, I love you.

It's not your fault.
I'm a lot better, and it won't happen again.
Don't look past me because you think it will happen again.

I wish you were out and proud.
Maybe someday, but I wish it were sooner than later.

You give me that feeling of butterflies.
In my heart, not my stomach.
It's so much lovelier in the heart.

I might try to seem cool, but I get really nervous and awkward around you.
Which *****, because I want to be cool around you.
It's to impress you, but it fails because I'm too awkward.

I am really grateful to have met you.
Fairly certain we're destined to be, you and I.

Whenever we can't think of something to do, I want to suggest kissing.
Maybe I will soon.
Doubtful, but maybe.

You smell amazing.
A smell of like, I don't even know.
It's my favourite smell.

Your opinion is incredibly important to me.
And you know how little I care about people's opinions.

I want you to be happy.
Even if that isn't with me, then so be it.

I smile like an idiot when you're with me.
(Sorry for looking like an idiot when you're with me.)

You make me feel right.
I like that feeling.

I'm sorry.

Just to let you know, I don't love you.
I never did.
Even though I said it, and demonstrated it.
I can lie.
Now you call me ***** when my back is turned.
Go for it.
I deserve it, but so do you.
You *****.
Honestly, you thought I would love you, and mean it?
I used you.
You're one of the biggest mistakes I could make.
Oh well.
At least you're gone now, I'm happy to report.
One more thing,
This poem isn't for you, or about you.
Don't flatter yourself.