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.

A young man once said,
if you're thinking about it,
don't do it.
It's not worth it.

And now the loaded thief sits in your hands,
staring you down.
Do you do it?

What for? he said
Someone hurt you?
Something go wrong?
Still not worth it.

And now the shiny silver bandit lays in your fingers,
waiting to make a move.
Do you do it?

The only way to make it better,
he went on,
is to do help yourself.
It's never worth it.

And now you have the chance to turn it around,
the choice is yours.
Do you do it?

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.

Old friend, you look so menacing
once you held strength, now only pain fills your heart.
I contemplate if your pain will take mine away.
Do I dare unleash the beast, which you harbor in your soul?
Dare I drink of your sadness?
It will keep my body young,
though it will make my spirits cease.
Old friend, lay me to rest.

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.

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.

It isn’t me, isn’t you
so much bigger than that
staring at you
a brick wall
a bird,
a song only those listening can hear.
A necklace glistening in the blistering sun’s heat
A car chase
The air you breathe
You can’t trap it,
contain it.
Your boxes are too small
and in a glass it would spill.
It’s pain,
joy.
It isn’t me, isn’t you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

you are in my house
and it will eat you
because you would be dead

i am busy
too busy
for this nonsense

tempting
but i must decline

Dear community:

I apologize for not being good enough.

Have a nice day.

They don't know you like I do.
I see you, I get you.
Don't be frightened by me,
I won't hurt you.

I know you wanted to.
You like the color red,
you told me yourself,
said it's your favorite.

Don't feel bad about kitty.
She's off somewhere, we'll tell mama.
She ran out, we'll say.
The backyard is a good spot to put kitty.
Mama doesn't have to know about kitty.

He just didn't get it.
You really didn't want him touching Dolly.
We tried to ask him nicely, like doctor said to,
but in the end, we had to make him give her back.
He just wouldn't listen.
Apparently he likes red too.

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 are you running?
Here, you say. You need to leave here.

What are you running from?
Things, things that you need to put behind you.

What do you mean?*
Your past, you say. You need it to go away.

I am your past.
Am I your past?
Don't run from me.
Run with me.

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.

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.

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?

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).

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?

Have you ever stopped
to realize,
she really doesn't care about you?
Never once.
She doesn't treat you like you matter,
any more than the next guy.
You're just someone,
maybe even no one.

Have you ever stopped
to weep,
to lay everything down,
in a vast pool of tears?
The salty sin whose presence makes proud men cower in shame.
They bring us together, as one.
All of us, under the same fall of rain.

Have you ever stopped
to think,
who would care?
If you were gone, who would take the time to see?
The ways to go, they haunt you.
And none take their time to recognize,
though you think of death,
you may already be dead.

Have you ever stopped
to smell,
to breathe in the dawn of a new day,
and smell the beauty of the flowers?
Young child,
you aren't alone.
Together, we can smell.
We will smell the flowers and live.
Together.

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.

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.

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.

Leave it be.
You say we share,
but you lie.
That is my dream,
not yours.

Go get your own-
I don't want you to take it.
That is my dream.
Get your own.

That is my dream.
Why can't you get that?
Please go be original,
and stay away from my dreams.

I'm sorry.

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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.