I drank 4 shots yesterday
Every single one
"in the name of those we lost in love"
Feeling the burn
Down my throat
Tasting your last
Goodbye
And watching it infect
The blood in my veins
I felt the dizziness of
Being lost
The kind you feel when
You've just lost a friend
Or the one you'd fall asleep next to
Or both
I felt the nausea rise up
Like a roaring sea
With the memories we once had
As I stumbled down
To touch the ground
That for once felt like home
Trying to rid myself
Of the thoughts of you
Swimming in my mind
Sober or drunk
It's always you that
My heart remembers

I am hollow and afraid
I wonder - do they see my pain?
I hear echoes of the rain
the downpour inside my brain
I see the drops falling down
I want to stop them, but
I am hollow and afraid

I pretend I am fine, but
I feel very far from fine
I run my fingers through my hair
I fear judgement, everywhere
I cry inside, but only there, for
I am hollow and afraid

I know they say "life is a wonder"
I say life is a four-letter-word
I dream of death, desolation, disaster
I just want it all to end, because
**I am so hollow, and so afraid

Oh Jacob, where did you go?
Smiling with your madness,
Of...wait, he wonders where'd his veins go!?
They had ran of to another part of his mind,
One he didn't understand very well,
And felt haunted going there,
Because of the attic from hell,
Oh Jacob, where'd you go?
He heard it,
But the corner vortex has a beautiful hum,
And the desperation of his frantic glances for fun,
He doesn't know whether to talk back or just...
Oh lord the clocks are ticking backwards and everyone is acting like it's a pumpkin patch they never wanted to visit,
He must let everyone know!
He says, "What's the point of shoveling snow?!"
While living in a desert,
Oh Jacob, where'd you go

I play blind.
Take you in with other
Senses.

Read your every line with my
Fingers, taste your
Sweet salt,

Smell the cotton and sleep
That held you, before I
Woke you up with

Hands and whispered kisses,
Craving to hold you
Myself.

I love you in
Moonlight. I love
You.

Your scents and flavours.
Your heartbeat escapes like
Poetry from your ribcage.

That I'm cute
Beautiful
Pretty

And I tell them that
It's okay that I'm not
Because I know I'm not
But I don't like being lied to

I know I'm not
Because I can't let tears
Drip down my cheeks
As they shimmer in the dim light
Of the movie credits

I sob until
My face is red and damp and puffy
And I'm clinging to your sleeve
And just crying so uncontrollably
That people sitting next to us
In the dark theater
Might glimpse over to see if maybe
I have a reason to cry so hard.

Does shehave cancer?
Is she missing a leg?
Did her crack-addict mother die when she was an infant?
Why is this bratty straight white blonde girl crying while watching Selma/Dallas Buyer's Club/The Help?

I have to brush my hair
Instantly
When I get out of the pool
In the summer
(Hopping from foot to foot of course
Because the sun has baked the concrete)
Because if I don't
It becomes a half-curly knotted mess.

And if I don't braid it directly after that
Then it dries
In resemblance to a Yield Sign
In a somewhat triangular form

And I'm chubby.
Not fat. It would be better if I were fat.
If I were fat then things would be
Proportionalish
But instead I'm just
A 5'2 and 3/4" girl
With DDs that no one wants
Because "***** don't count when you're chubby"
And baby fat that lounges on my stomach
No matter how many kilometers I row.

My fingers are too small for my hands.
My glasses make my eyes look huge.
My lips are forever chapped.
My cheeks are overly red.
My eyes are too dark to be pretty
And I know it.
I know all of it.

I've lived in my body for longer than you have.
So don't lie to me.
Don't tell me that I'm cute
Beautiful
Or god forbid pretty
Because I really
Really
Hate being lied to.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.