I was not taught to write well.
In that arena I educated myself.

As I paid attention
to the frayed dimensions
my teachers failed to mention,
to the apprehension
that caused me tension
as I sat in detention
for sins no one
would clearly define.

It was clearly my mind
that wrought upon me
such severe punishments,
but in that dissonance
I found my relevance.
In my confusion
I learned to write away
my dark illusions
and replace them
with my imagination’s
strange and playful whims.

What a delight
like a sprite,
my fair and funny
fairy maiden
made in
the imagination
that makes friends
with all of the creations
of forest folklore.

I wish other people
spoke more
generosity into being
like this magical
benevolent being.

As I peruse social feeds to ease
my boredom, she softens my aching blues,
as every story ends and begins
with artful acts of compassion.

Shadows
of distorted memories,
bruises and welts
well hidden,
so child service
couldn’t see,
and every time
the counselor asked
what was bothering me,
I just shrugged
and said “nothing much,”
because afterwards
I would get
threatened or beaten
if I didn’t give her
my full confession.

It was a place
where I
had no control,
a time were
I had to do
what I was told
or else.

Then on to school
where I wasn’t cool,
just too smart for
my own good,
always reading
some different book.

Poor clothes must have
put a target on my back,
but it didn’t matter
cause I always fought back.

Some called those
the glory days
but I wouldn’t
return to that
time or place.

I came to you
with games
and love
to spare,
with a heart
that cares,
seeking to
end despair
in favor of
a better world.

You came
with hate
and violence,
the will to silence
all those who
would be kind to
you and others to.

You bombed
and brutalized
told our people
horrible lies
to make them despise
the good guys.

You turned homes
into ****** battlefields
tortured and killed
cause it was a thrill
to sit back and make
more than a cool mill.

But one day
when you
refuse to change
I will come back,
attack with rage.
I will return your plague
with the self-inflicted
bitterness made
from thinking
things could be better.

I tightened the circle
let the lines loosen,
then in my state of confusion
pulled them tightly.

I subtracted loved ones nightly,
despite my social media
connections
my real-life affections
became whispers in
the distance from
previous family members
and friends I’ve loved.

With a noose I constricted
till it was too perfect.
Then I ****** it.
It was like when
I was biting
my tongue
just hard enough to hurt
but not enough to cut
that slippery tool off.

I choked and cough
felt the loss
as I tried to break
my own neck.
I signed my own check,
by happily self-secluding,
and the excuse I was using
was the best scape goat.

As grief scraped my throat,
I tried to cleanse my palate
stirred my mind like a salad
all vegies and greens mixing,
lying and saying it was healthy
but really just tricking
myself into doing what
I was always going to do.

Death by a thousand losses,
each cut cost me
a fraction of my identity
and hopeful personality.

Until my corpse
swung from the rafters
and tears sprung from
melancholic laughter.

Then nothing came
happily, ever after.

Politicians
extort men
to retort then
go on acting
bad again,
whilst reporting
trends that tend
to move friends
to end good
relationships
in favor of
spouting off *******.

Is it preposterous
to think that
poetry could foster in us
a deeper understanding,
make empathy a commandment
moving us towards
capturing compassion’s actions
like they were transactions
designed to pay for more
good in the world?