they're pushin plastic
tellin me it'll be fantastic
but my brain goes static
thought my soul was bombastic
but they want me elastic
I swear that it's drastic
but they keep pushin plastic
and they pull out the mastic
it's a quick fix
to nix
my organic mix
bring on the gmo tricks
I've wished and I've wailed
but the words impale
I wanted
so dearly
to be proven wrong
told to be strong
but the throng
raising their prongs
keep pushin plastic

Trapped in a fatal instinct.
I carry an ideal of a prince,
When I find someone of those qualities
I reach out.
I reach out in desperation for that kindness.
But my hand lowers as I take in the view,
between the Prince and I,
a field.
A field of broken glass
and the unruly truth
that I will bleed out
before ever reaching him.
I venture a few anchored steps forward,
feeling the glass cut into my skin
but again, I will bleed out.
So I stay behind the field of glass,
hand pressed against a window.
I remain in my dark corner,
shrouded in monsters,
because monsters make sense.
The prince, he is a silly ideal,
But the Monsters aren't.
The monsters let me breath easy
and though coated in violence
I feel safe.
It's hard to explain why,
but I suppose it's rather simple,

The kind ideal of that Prince is silly and terrifying,
but the monsters aren't,
because the monsters make sense.

it was just a few days ago
I asked What Is Love?
I was so afraid
I might never know it,
and here I am
tears in my eyes
"9-1-1
I'm having a heart attack"
I was so afraid
I might never know it
now I'm afraid
this is what it feels like
I'm afraid I've fallen in love
and I pray
please god
if this is love
take it away
take it away
it hurts
it hurts.

First day of school.
I sit down in class
and my eyes meet his.
He gives a funny head tilt and smile.
and that has been the extent of our communication.
I've had a crush on him since.
not exactly, a romantic wanting crush,
a strange crush.
I'm not sure I'd ever date him,
or that I want him to like me,
I just like him,
if that makes sense.
I like the way he looks,
I think he's funny and odd...
but not many people like him.
in fact most people hate him.
he's annoying and weird
and dumb
and my close friends slander him-
and it makes me feel ashamed for liking him.
It's a year now, I still like him
and find him interesting
but why do I feel ashamed?
I don't see what the others see,
I don't see why he's so hated.
I'm not expecting him to ever like me back
or even acknowledge me,
I just like him and that's that,
and I don't understand why everyone else hates him
and why it makes me feel bad for liking him.
The way they talk about him
and give each other looks
when he speaks in class,
it makes me dare not breath of a word of my liking of him,
makes me feel bad for feeling like this.
I shouldn't feel ashamed for liking that tall skinny boy.
I do.
But I shouldn't.

I hate going to sleep.
It's the worst.
My bed creaks and moans
its springs bursting up into my sore back
and it sinks down in the middle
like the pit in my stomach.
It's old and awful
but it knows my shape.
Knows how I sleep most nights,
curled in a ball.
And some nights,
some nights it's too much.
I revert to the shape I and the bed
are so familiar with
but it overwhelms me.
It's a lonely shape.
It's a scared shape.
It's... an awful empty sad shape.
So I toss and I turn
as the shape calls my name
and I throw the sheets off
and decide not to sleep at all
because the shape imprinted on the bed
has never been touched
been hugged too few a time
and is still sadly clinging to the memories
of those few hugs.
I've spent too many nights
in that stupid shape,
hugging myself
trying to recall the exact feeling of being hugged by another
and I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of tossing and turning
because I can't feel comfortable in any position
not even the one imprinted on the mattress
because they're all so frustrated
and alone.

They ask me why I'm sorry,
But how can I reply?
struggling to find the words
but choking and drowning instead.

Memories flash by
muddled with contempt
of his hands around my throat,
of a bloodied fist and bat.

It must have been my fault,
in fact I was told it was.
The bruises and burns
form stripes across my body
and it must have been my fault.

"You're a *****"
he'd say
"A worthless swarthy *****,
and you don't deserve to be here-
you deserve to die"

so prompt and adament in my mind
feeling my weak bones shiver and snap
as they recall a bloodied bat bruising my childhood's skin
again and again
and again
and again
and again
and again...

I'm sorry.
I'll never know what I did
to make them all hate me
to make him hate me
they say we are blood
but does blood have that much hate?
three other siblings-
they did nothing wrong
It was me
and always me
that had to apologize.

I don't know what I did,
so I'll say I'm sorry
I'll apologize for everything in sight
to make up for the little girl
who couldn't be sorry enough.

Did I grow up too fast?
or not at all?

I do everything I can
all in my ability
I'm trying so hard
above and beyond
it's not good enough
I am still not worthy
I am still just ****
sitting half on the littered street
half on the drain

I don't understand

I promised myself
that if I ever saw you again,
you'd be shocked.
I'd be so skinny
and dressed well
and interesting
and you'd kick yourself
for giving me up.
But of course
the day you say you'll be there
is the day I'll be cosplaying
and it's what you've always made fun of me for,
why you ended our friendship; because I'm weird.
Because I wear weird clothes
and say weird things.
I wanted to impress you
but as I spend hours in the mirror
observing my costume
trying to make myself still look good
and stop this stupid dress-shirt
from bubbling up in the back
so you can see my slender hourglass,
I start to think that I might just not go.
feign my usual sickness so that I don't have to face you,
so that the reason you gave me up isn't confirmed.
You're a popular model
with expensive clothes and perfect hair and makeup
and cheekbones to die for,
I'm a balloon next to you,
you'd look like a stick
posing next to a farm pig.

I sit down and cry
because the panic overwhelms me
and tears sound like pig snorts
and I realize that you make me feel bad about myself.
you make me hate myself.
My best friend for six years
and you made me disgusted with myself.

I wish I were strong enough to
tell you that I don't want to see you
and that I have better friends.
but I still want to impress you.
To show you that I'm more
than just your old fat ugly nerd loser friend.
that I'm better than you.

but I told you I would see you.
and now I'm afraid to step out of the house.

I want to give you up,
put down the pen.
I want to stop writing
about all these awful feelings
I can only announce
through tacky rhymes
to strangers I'll never know.

I hope some day,
I won't have to write poetry.

It doesn't matter
how many layers
I put on,
this bed still feels
too cold to sleep
when you're not lying next to me

I admire your each step,
I admire the mystery around you,
I admire each syllable of every poignant word you press to paper
and the words you do not.
I admire the love you proclaim to have for her,
and if I knew her,
I should think I'd admire her too.

I don't know you
nor shall I ever,
but I can still watch you walk the school halls
and wonder what makes you tick,
what your family does and doesn't do,
what you were like as a child
how you became like this
and how you are able to enchant the world with your writing-
making me eternally frustrated with my own-
ranking my words by whether or not you
like or comment or repost them-
which you don't,
thus I feel a failure.

You have a purpose with your words,
something to say
and you say it so strong
and with such beauty
and heartache
I crave the next time you post-
and I'll evermore continue to wonder
how you became so mighty.

Do you work on your poetry or is it natural?
is it because you read so much?
is it because you don't waste countless hours on the computer
or watch TV?
How did you become you
which is so admirable
and mysterious
and deep
and talented
and unique?

I know I don't have a right to ask these questions
and with what little I know about you
I certainly don't have the right to admire you
and I don't deserve to know your life story,
but I'd like to know anyways.

I'm an ugly person
for the way that I think.
The things I say under my breath.
Wrapped in grubby chains of envy
at all who walk past.
and I do mean all.
I'm angry because I'm not as good
as everyone else,
not as pretty.
I'm angry because beauty is granted to everyone
and those with disabilities.
I often think this girl is pretty,
but the only reason she has a modeling contract
and has this fame
is because she lost an arm
was bullied
showed her insulin pump in her photo
has a disease
or is deformed.
girls who look worse than me
praised like Gods for their beauty
because they have something wrong with them.
I'm jealous of that.
I fantasize often about my grand sad story,
jumping in front of a bullet, attacked,
cancer, loss of limb etc etc
I want their awful story
just so people will like me
and think I'm pretty.

It's disgusting.
Their life is hard
and they are brave
but I think it's unfair
and I'm still jealous.
They get praise and treated like royalty
because they're sick.
beautiful and sick is beautiful.
ugly and sick is beautiful.
beautiful and normal is beautiful.
ugly and normal is nothing.
ugly is ugly.
and even as I recognize my disgusting thoughts,
they're still there.
brooding and boiling
in a *** of green slimy jealousy,
jealous because they're lucky
and blessed and fortunate.
I'm ugly because I'm jealous.

Brother
see I love you
till the end of time
come home
I won't look back
if you promise to look forward
P(ain)hotographs
they're so old
let's take new ones
tell me how you're doing
brother
protector
fighter
lover
you had it hard
let's fight once more
I'll read you a story
like you used to read to me
no one else can take your place
you are still my brother
you are gone in the desert
adventures
you are having adventures
I like to believe
you are happy
with loved ones
if only
you hadn't drunk so much
brother
I love you
come home
you don't have to bring the bottle
don't bring the bottle
curse the bottle
brother.
'till the end of time
I'll be waiting

Do they know why I cry
do they know
do they know I eat and eat
and purge and purge
Do they know
why I dare not speak his name
Do they know  why I'm scared
Do they know why I beat myself
Do they know why I let myself be beat
Do they know what happened when I small
Do they know what made me into this.

Do they know
Do they know a thing
anything
one thing
something
Do they know a clue
to complete my puzzle.

no, they don't,
they don't know.

Tell me I'm pretty,
or I shall cut myself from head to toe.

Keys
Ivory fingers
pale poised
passing promptly
across the keys
of the loneliest sounding instrument.
Cold little bones
pressing
precisely picked notes.
Eyes closed
as the music carries,
for I learned this song
when I was just a little girl,
a song of loneliness
of heart ache
I learned this tune
because I lost the will
to say
   I am unhappy
   I have been used
   I long for your love
   Tell me I'm not all that my mind thinks I am
   How long shall I play this song?
Ivory fingers
pressing poorly
pastored keys
the song ages with me
it becomes slower and slower
and lighter and lighter
as the will to press the keys
as the will to express anything at all
slowly fades away
with my surrounding's discouragements,
     *how much longer will I play this song?

My eyes alit with fire as I spoke
sensing it come up my throat
and dance to the tip of my tongue,
it quivered and wavered
seconds from bursting
but when I opened my mouth it lay

                still

Knowing it was not yet time,

and so it remains,

on the tip of my tongue.

What would happen if I stopped?
Simply stopped.
Would it be all that bad?
No,
no it would not.

I sit frozen in front
of the fridge the cupboards
stocked full
but nothing to eat.
So maybe I'll just stop.

I'm exhausted
but lay awake,
so maybe I'll just stop.

Would it be all that bad?
No,
No it would not.
This life is complicatedly simple,
and very hard
and very scary
and very sad,
so maybe I'll just stop.

After all,
Living isn't for everyone.

I sat on the bus
and drew a frown
on the foggy window
and realized I had little
to no idea who I really am.

This doesn't feel like just a phase,
My whole body's in a daze
i've been running circles in this maze.
on the inside looking out
Run-Jump-Scream-Shout
You cannot keep me in this cage
Not when I'm filled with all this rage
Watch me break all the rules
Set all good morals ablaze
I've got red lightening on my face-
To get me out of this place.
Judge me on the street,
Size me up like a piece of meat
Come closer-feel my heat
You wish you had what I have.

My Story's never ending,
I'll live to be a legend,
You'll wish you got to know me,
You'd beg to be this free.
i don't care if you agree
I'm not here to please,
i'm here to correct the lie,
and write a story that will never die.

Hair waving up and down in the wind,
paper flapping lightly.
Maybe I'll let it go,
maybe I'll let this poem be taken by the wind.
Maybe I'll write something from the heart
and release it.
No name,
no Title,
Just words that hurt;
words I'll soon forget.
I write them down,
but why do I keep them?
I should let them go,
forget.
The world would be a prettier place
if the garbage we pass on the street
was filled with beauty.
There's no point in keeping them,
rhyming thoughts
to remind me how sad I am.
There is no point in writing them down,
but nevertheless, I'll keep writing,
and I will hold the paper down
as the wind tries to pry it from me,
and I will promise not to let it go,
because somewhere in the depths of my heart,
these words matter.

let's blow people's minds
make their heart tremble
hot breath spurling through cool air.
Let's be an indie movie
where we're unique and new
and inventive,
and sit in obscure places
wearing tattered clothing
styling our obscene hair
discussing our rocketed adventures
and disjumbled but inspirational and boggling
views on life, the universe, and everything.
Let's put them together in careful lines
and send them out to the world
so that those who read it
may call us poets.

Don't speak
shut up
cover those bruises
one word and it's over
if you make too much noise
you'll get hit.

Curl your hair
and hide your ugly face
no one wants to hear you
nobody cares
sit down
shut up
keep quiet or you'll get more bruises
you're nothing
you're worthless
you don't deserve to be alive
keep crying and I'll **** you
shut up
stop lying
you know he'd never hit you
you gave those bruiess to yourself
shut up
stop lying
nobody cares
you know its your fault
stop being dramatic
stop screaming
stop crying
you're not really in pain
shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up!



I've heard it since forever.
It's all they've ever said.
So that's exactly what I'll do,
I won't cry,
pretend not to feel
I'll sit down and shut up.
it's been true all along,
nobody really cares,
you're right
it's my fault
the bruises are gone
but I still feel them.
but it doesn't matter
because I know it's my fault.

So that's what I'll do/
I'll pretend not to feel.
I'll sit down
and not speak a word
because I've been told that
since forever,
that I am nothing,
and that is all I'll ever be.

So I'll sit down,
close my eyes,
and never speak a word.

her heart beats strongly for him
                 she wants to love him
                         she truly does
                                 she just has to figure out
                                                                              *how

When that song comes on
and I close my eyes
swaying
mouthing the words
feeling them to the core
it's clear I sing them to you.

When that song comes on
and you can't take your eyes off me
swaying
mouthing the words
feeling them to the core
it's clear you sing them to me.

Skinny.
Moppy hair,
high, defined cheekbones
framing your pale face,
Those eyes, nearly black,
kind and soft with illness.

The disease lies strong within you,
bony metacarpels tracing my hip,
you feel it in me too.

At peace with our dragons,
frozen in war-
purple dye
tainting the test results,
prompting questions
of skinny love
run rampant.

Voice of an off-kilter Angel,
whispering sweet horrors
into mine that are nearly deaf.

Entrance me
in your dying symphony,
your frail sonnet
your crisp breath-
your last breath.

Set me on my way
into an unknown,
shrouded
in little miseries.

You would think that when the lights go out
and the room is pitch black,
that I would lose my shape.
Revert back to the sickly lump
whose stomach bubbles and pops
with each heavy breath.
But I don't.
I keep steady,
hold my pose
out of sheer fear
that someone's eyes might adjust to the darkness
and see me for what I truly am.

So what do you think of me?
You think I don't try?
well I try
oh my god do I try
do I cry
always lie,
you think I'm reclusive
                         elusive
                         aloof
                 and kloof
You think I like it that way,
solitude every day,
think I don't care to talk
or catchup to you and walk
you think there's a reason
I don't and haven't socialized,
well It's because I'm being terrorized.
You can't see it
not from where you sit
step in my shoes
feel what it's like to lose
see the earth on fire
trapped on a spire
a hero holding arms out
too petrified to jump or shout,
you know where safety lies
but black rain falls from black skies
and you're not sure if those arms are for you
or another in need of rescue too.
So hear what it's like
with nowhere to hike
overcome by a thousand eternal flame
that make you think you're to blame
that you feel this way because you set the fire
it got out of control only growing higher,
you feel ostracised and unwanted,
hated ugly and shameful and jaunted.
You live in fear
it's all your fault,
growth maturity and experiences put on halt,
post traumatic stress
a scared, shameful child and nothing less.

So what do you think of me?
think I don't try
I don't care
nothing behind my blank stare,
well there's everything behind these eyes;
apocalypse covered in flies
bruises and scars
heart to the stars
a longing shiver
pristine liver
paranoia and neglect
depression can't forget
a pig reflect
insignificant insect
-So what do you think of me,
look and tell me what you see,
and for you I can guarantee,
nothing is as it should be.

She slapped me across the face
and told me I was a ***** *****
it's all my fault
Everything is-
the divorce
the abuse
my fat ugly face
I'll get nothing out of this world
I repulse her
She wishes I was one of her miscarriages
I've ruined her life
I'm disrespectful and *****
a sinner and ****
I make her cry and I don't care
and it's all because
I'm not just like her.
My hearts going to explode
under this weight
but who am I kidding
she's right
this is all my fault.


if it wasn't my fault,
why else wouldn't she love me?

the theatre has fallen,
the great black box is no longer a home away from hell
it is a soundscape of fear and hunger
where I can't feel accepted
and no longer respected
it is a nest of inferiority
and a longing for conformity
lonliness eats my heart away
though exactly why, I cannot say.
It used to be my home
my kingdom,
but on return from summer
it was as if the house had been renovated,
a new family moved in
and I'm not even a guest,
I'm a ghost, unseen by all
drifting through walls that used to be
stuck in the past
desperate to breath with the living.
But instead I stay in back,
haunting all I see,
under the realization,
that the only one being haunted,
is me.

I'm not who I am,
I'm not who I wanna be,
I hate where I'm at
I'm not what I say.
I'm not who I claim to be
nothing to set me free
Trapped inside a shell
is this me?
I can't tell.
Perfect,
It's not mine to claim
I deserve no such fame
I used to treat life as a game,
but that's what brought me to this world of pain.
Oh Vanity, sweet insanity
teach me what I don't,
it's a fear of what I won't.
Do nothing but speak
I am one of the weak,
Vanity comes with such calamity,
make me feel okay,
from now until the end of days.

It feels like someone telling you you're beautiful,
like you're floating,
like you fall asleep smiling at the memories,
like when you're cold, and you picture their arms around you, warm,
like you're having conversations in the shower with yourself that you'll never have,
like you're checking the phone hoping they'll text first because you're too afraid,
like you're eating well and exercising well because you want look well for them because, they make you feel well.
like you don't have to lie anymore
like you can grow higher than ever
like you can smile in a photo and not delete it seconds after,
it feels like all of these things together, when you know they do not do the same.
it feels like you're holding your chin up, pretending you can just be friends, pretending your heart didn't decide, that they could make you happy, and whole. It feels like, with every breath, pretending you don't love them.
it feels like it hurts.

I wish I could write love poems
as beautiful
and enticing as all the other poets
as all the other heartbroken teenagers
and young aspiring children
and wise old fools
all happy to let themselves be whisked away
with a flurry of emotion.

I wish I could write like them.
I wish I could make my a reader smile
and sigh
and feel envious of my sweet sweet poetic love
but I can't.
I wish I could write poems like him and her
like all the others,
wish I could write a love poem,
but I don't know love.
I don't know what it is to love
or what it is to be loved
so how could I possibly write a love poem?
where would I begin?

I wish I could write a love poem,
but I don't know love,
and I'm so scared that I never will.

I'd like to drink true
and bold
and fearless
and honest,

instead they tell me to bottle it up.

I'd like to breath easy
sleep steady,
smile
drink more
and sigh at a sight-

but instead I'm just foolish.

I've been told it is wrong since forever,
and have tried my hardest to drink
only the freshest wine-
like all the other people my age do,
but I cannot.
It results only in my lying,
Faking emotions I could never have,
pretending to like the pure taste.

I've never seen a problem with it,
but
Not only do they say it is wrong-
it is illegal.
It hurts my soul, for now,
but soon, just a year, I'll be free to love and drink
aged wine the same as I do now,
only with less scrutiny.

I'll be free to be held in public with few judging eyes,
I'll drink unto it
and it will drink into me.
and the brief
secretive moments of passion
that have always stayed hidden that people say is wrong
can end-
and cautiously enter where the sun's rays pour.

I have my eye on a fine bottle of wine,
it gets better with age,
they tell me I shouldn't,
taking a drink would be wrong,
I've only had sips-
but soon
so soon,
I'll have a glass.

You got lost in the woods
that was so long ago
they looked and they looked
but when they found you
you'd already been gone so long
what would you think
to see all the people
posting on your facebook
what would you think
to see all these people
posting how sad it is
how sorry they are
how ripped up they are
even though they only knew you by name
by occasional meeting
so many people
posting "so sad"
but not feeling it.
posting "I'm praying for your family"
but how many are really praying?
posting "gunna miss ya bro"
and giving it no other mention?
lots of sad emoticons
and sharing of that **** police report
but nobody is saying anything real
anything noteworthy.
I never heard of you until now,
but your death means it's a fad
and everyone's saying how sad they are
but they're not really feeling it.
They're so used to just typing R.I.P.
and using sad emojis
that only a select few
are really hurting,
the rest are just making it trivial.
I'm sorry for your loss Lucero,
I'm sorry you're gone,
I'm sorry people see this
as a bandwagon
jumping on
because that's what they're used to doing,
and that's what they'll keep doing.

My tongue
my fingers
I paint the grass green
but I'm suffocating in the fumes

Elusive cat eye

in the corner

notebook out

voice absent from the chatter

"she must be an artist"

                   they say

"she must be an artist"

The walls are white,
floors hardwood,
     lines painted on canvases
costing 6,000 each,
      outside
               there is trash on the street.

There are no descriptions,
    no artist names,
         only pretty pictures
   to keep us entertained