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.

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

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.

Jolly old conservative,
lean your ear this way!
Don't you know what it feels like
to be black or gay?
Of course you don't, but you refuse
to attempt to see
regardless if they're gay or black,
they're just like you and me!

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'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.

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.

Why hello there
it's nice to see you again
not like it's anything different or
special, see
you're simply everywhere I go
not like that's bad though
see, I like you
the way you smile
your hair
even your unconventional nerdy socks
not like I'd ever tell you
or talk to you
at all
see I'm scared
not like scared of you
but of your thoughts
about me
if there are such thoughts.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You rally the people
and I will carry them.

And we will march
and we will wave the flag
as we once did.

You will lead the people
as I sing our war cries.

And we will watch,
with tears in our eyes,
as our enemies fall.

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.

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.

Dear community:

I apologize for not being good enough.

Have a nice day.

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.

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.

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.

Last I saw her she was out in her garden.
There's the sun up in the sky, right with mama underneath.
"Help me with my tulips, darling!"
She had such a smile.

That garden was a sight, but not even close to mama.
Her curls fell like golden raindrops,
and her eyes sparkled like diamonds.
She'd grab me up and tell me stories.

Well, I remember seeing kitty that day.
In the morning, but in the after noon,
I couldn't find kitty.
"Mama, where's kitty?"
but mama didn't answer.

She was busy, hanging something from the ceiling.
She wasn't very good at hanging things, she put the rope on herself.
The chair she was standing on must have fell or something,
so I propped it back up, waiting for her.
To come down.

Eventually kitty came back.
Mama didn't.

Dancing with you.
Is there a time more beautiful, more fragile?
Everyone else, everything else, is blurred.
Time stops, sound stops.
We're faster than light, you and I.
Even if they don't understand.
We aren't in love for them to understand.

We don't dance anymore.
We aren't in love anymore.
There isn't anything left for them to not understand.
I'm in love,
you're in denial.

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.

You've seen it before,
it's in all the movies:
the good guy gets the girl
and they ride off into oblivion.
He just tosses some stones
up at her window
and showers her with affectionate
serenades and ****** B-rate poetry.

I grabbed some rocks,
and wrote a poem.
Your house was far
and the trip was long,
and my bike now has one flat tire.

On the first throw I missed the window all together and
hit your neighbor's mailbox.
The second try hit the window but
you weren't there to answer.
The third rock broke the window.
It was actually your sister's window.

Your mail that day consisted of
a rock saying 'sorry,'
the twelve dollars I had in my pocket,
and ****** B-rate poetry.

Hopefully your insurance covers dumb ideas derived from feelings of love.

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.

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.

There she sits:
adorned in pearls,
her black curls, laughing.
The women, envious.
The men, entranced.
Her image,
stained in red.

There she kneels:
her master, leaving;
his hand sore,
her face weaker.
He leaves.
His fist,
stained in red.

There she lays:
another day's work, finished.
The man, buttoning his shirt.
Enters his wife
screaming away passion.
Their life together,
stained in red.

There she weeps:
the troubles of the world,
****** onto her shoulders.
She is *****,
unwanted by all.
A once beautiful creature.
The harlot,
stained in red.

Français est mon abri
parce que tu ne lis pas il.
Bien sûr, tu peux juste recherches il.
Mais, je ne souci pas.
Je ne souci rien.
C'est faux.

J'ai de l'affection de toi trop tant!
Alors, je connais c'est bête,
mais je dois parler,
je t'aime.
Non, j'adore toi.
Quand je suis avec toi,
je suis très heureuse!
Quelque chose à toi.
Je t'aime.

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.

I want you.
I want to sit with you, in an apartment that's ours.
I want to buy furniture with you.

I want to eat Indian food with you,
and watch stupid sitcoms that are on tv with you.

I want to adopt a cat with you.
I want to read books while holding hands with you.

I want to cuddle with you for hours when it's raining outside.
Hell, I want to get caught in that rain with you.

I want to dance to my Frank Sinatra record collection.
I want it to be our collection.

I want to drive, really really far with you.
Like, really far.
I want to spend that much time in a confined space with you.

I want to run to Waffle House with you at three in the morning when we're high.
So, I want to get high with you.

I want to come home, to our home, and just be with you.
I want to sit down and file tax returns with you.

But, more than anything,
I want you to be happy.

So, if that means
you want nothing to do with me, then
I want you to forget me.

If you don't want to see me again,
I want to disappear.

If you want to run away from me, like I'm a problem,
I want to run in the opposite direction.

But, if one day,
you want me in return,
I'll be there.
You're all I've ever wanted,
and all I ever will want.

Her eyes are dams,
holding back vast amounts of pain.
One day they will break.

Her voice is honey,
flowing sweetly from her lips.
One day it will run out.

Her hands are ballerinas,
dancing gracefully across the piano.
One day they will fall.

Her heart is an orchestra,
conducting haunting symphonies.
One day, I will stop hearing them.

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).

This must be said to you, girl.
I'm very much over you.
Please realize I used you, and now I'm done.

This must be said to you, different girl.
I'm really desperately in love with you.
Please realize this will most likely be true forever.

This must be said to you, other girl.
I'm in as much friend love as I can be with you.
Please realize I love you in the most heterosexual way possible.

This must be said to you, me.
I'm not ever going to be apart from you.
Please realize you can love me, and actually mean it.

The pattern in the stars suggests amore;
Feelings of love for you and you alone.
They frolic, dance, as waves do to the shore.
The stars glisten for you, they are your own.
Tell me, my darling, can you see the stars?
How passionately they glimmer for you.
Only they may tell of love such as ours.
They hold the key to our passion so true.
Come what may, the sun still rises at dawn,
And I notice your passions have faded.
In the morning, my heart for you does fawn.
Your expressions, seem distant and jaded.
Do answer me: once the stars cease to shine,
Do you low your glance, ashamed to be mine?

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.

Are you scared of me,
I asked you.
I don't think you understood.
Are you scared of love?
Of being loved,
of feeling love?
Love from me?

I am alone
in a vast sea of ever changing faces.
I am naked,
and I am vulnerable.
The people point
and tell mock stories about me.
They spit where I stand,
and laugh at my back.
I am naked,
in a vast sea of ever changing faces,
and I am alone.

She's doing it again,
staring at me.
I try to look away,
but her gaze pulls me back in.
Every time I glance away,
her eyes move within mine.

I turn back to her.
She is staring into my eyes,
into my soul.
Her eyes hold pain.
They're wild, frightened,
yet warm, understanding.
The look on her face matching
my feelings: skittish and mischievous.
Her hair, even more wild than her eyes:
the colour of lightening.
I smirk at her.
She shoots it back.

We continue our charade for some time.
She just won't leave me.
I give up.
You win.
Upon leaving I found her name:
Reflection.

Okay,
You are the most deceptive person I know.
You are this twisted tangled mess of confusion and I can't figure you out.
I know how I feel, but you're so confusing.
You do realize you could probably beat me up and really hate me a lot and I wouldn't notice it?
You are so elusive.
Doctor Who makes more sense than you do.
I can solve a Rubik's Cube faster than I will ever solve you.
Just tell me what you want.
I'm not a magician/ detective/ immortal god with mind reading abilities.
You honestly confuse me about as much as chemistry.
Okay maybe not that much.
One moment, you're all happy to talk to me, all ooh let's hang out and stuff,
the next I wait days for a reply.
What the ****?
What's more confusing though?
I put up with it.
And I like it.
I like you.

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.

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.

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.

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.