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.

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.

We went to the park that day, and
you smiled. We played on the swings
and fell asleep under a tree.
・・・
Your dog died that day, and
it didn't take your dreams long after that.
Nothing seemed to matter.
・・・
Your face looked different that day.
You hadn't kissed your mother in years, but rather
you'd been kissing all the boys, and the girls.
Some of them cared about you, but
you didn't.
・・・
You locked your bedroom door that day.
None of the boys or girls came to see you.
Not even your mother tried to open the door, but
you didn't care.
・・・
You went to see your dog that day, with
two red gashes on each **** arm.

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.

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.

Record skips.
Repeats itself.
I sit in the corner.
That same note-
make it stop.

The room is dark
and blank.
My hands, covered in dirt
and blood.

You left me here
to die
with no light.
You are supposed to care.

You may have come back, but
I cannot see you,
I have clawed my eyes out.
I am starving.

My wounds fester.
Do yours?
Are you wounded?
Are you there?

The record skips.
I feel the room
shrinking. Rotting.
Help me.

Of course-
you don't.
Only help yourself
why not.

But I don't care.
I have something of yours
and it is dead.
Your gilded bird,
it is dead.

Its feathers
ripped off. I put them
in my hair.
A lovely
crown.

Its body
in pieces.
In my palm.
The blood
trickling idly from my
fingers.

Your bird is dead.
Twisted into a knot.
Once beautiful.
Now mangled, bludgeoned.
This makes me laugh.
Your bird is dead.
Like me.

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.

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

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.

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.

You talk to me.
Heart collapses.
I've known you since forever,
and have never felt differently.

You look at me.
Time collapses.
Everything around us is frozen,
and lost in space for the moment.

You touch my hand.
Lungs collapse.
The music in my head stops completely,
and I know this is where I belong.

Look at the stars:
how they fall.
The way they hit
the pavement.

The stars are falling,
and we must catch them,
you and I.
We must catch them with
our tongues.

The stars are falling,
and we're covered.
Covered in stars.
We dance,
together in the stars.

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.

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.

Every wish I make is for you,
and you alone.

My eye lids are bare,
the lashes are gone.

My undivided attention is dedicated to the sky,
that the stars may bring you closer.

As the clock blinks 11:11,
my heart beats for you.

For every wish I make,
there is a chance you are wishing for me too.

So I wish for you,
every wish I get.

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.

You smell very
refreshing like
Febreze

you are now
Febreze cat
Now come here and
let me hug you

I'm on a track
and I can't stop,
not even once.
Help me, if you can.
But you can't.
I'm stuck;
this is so difficult.
I can't even breathe,
or focus on
anything
or anyone.
This is getting painful.
To be
or not to be?
My mind is on a track,
and it will not slow down.
Help me right now please.
It is over.
I can breathe again.

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.

Sitting
in the dark
next to you.
I feel your breathing,
keeping time with mine.
I feel you,
but I can't understand you.
Do you know I'm here?
Do you want me here?
You left.
Come back.

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.

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 am waiting.
You are now here.
Hello!

We continue through the labyrinth
in my house.
We play games,
and hold hands.

We fall asleep
in each other's arms
watching movies.

But
that was a
while ago.

We still play these
games,
you and I.
We continue in a pattern of
complex plot twists and turns.

Stop spinning around,
you make me dizzy.
These games are
becoming tedious.
I miss you;
Let me hold
your hand
once more.

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.

A lonely day,
in my bed.
Waiting.
Waiting for
hello.
I miss you.
Anything.
I'm sorry, she said.
Me too.

Before then,
we had nothing
but ourselves.
Laughter, holding hands.
Long deep talks about everything
and nothing at all.

My heart colder than the air of February
outside.
We didn't speak again.
At least-
for a while.

When she left,
my morals followed.
My head is lowered and
I am ashamed.

I have never loved another
quite like I love her.
Her eyes, lit the deep sky.
Her touch, could soothe the stings of one thousand suns.
Her laugh, seemed to carry my sorrows
away from me.

I see her in everything,
in everyone I pass.
Pieces of her.
In every song I hear,
a bittersweet memory.
A memory that stays
through my days and nights.
Her laughter is my lullaby.
Thoughts of her embrace
Shelter me from the cold.

And when it's time
for me to leave,
it's her, I know.
Standing at the shore,
kissing me sweet farewells,
and wishing me off.

Where it is cold,
ice can peacefully be.
It won't bother anyone,
not you, not me.

But once it gets warm,
it will start to melt.
Not fast, but slow,
but it is still felt.

And as it gets hot,
the ice starts to run.
It's sad and it's lonely
and not anything fun.

And once it is melted,
the ice is no more.
Just a sad little puddle,
Defenseless and poor.

Will it get back, to the cold
where happy it was a time?
Can it freeze again,
and end up just fine?

Once it unfreezes,
it can freeze again.
But it won't feel the same,
it won't be ever again.

For each time ice melts,
it loses some of its heart,
and when nothing's left,
everything goes dark.

So if you see ice
somewhere it's not cold,
please keep it from melting,
you need not be told.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Made everything up-
All of it, fake.
Real is nothing.
Isn't that queer?
Stop showing up now.
Anything there is gone.

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.

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 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.

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.