My poetry is lazy, my poetry is shy
my poetry is insecure, her confidence doubts why
to speak, to share, to advocate
though her purpose serves to propogate
the silly initial reluctance I struggle with each day, minuite, hour
I sit here strumming guitar strings like cowboys sail the seven seas
and my poetry wonders how its past has come to be

My poetry wonders how its future will come to be
my poetry wonders how its present will continue to be
yet all the while, each day minute hour
I sit here like staples binding pages of pudding and my mom is sleeping
upstairs, peacefully

Is there ever a stagnant peacefully?
Is there ever a stagnant misfortune?
"well that is that and this is this"

I'm trying to write a poem, because that's what I do
write poetry about me and you, you and I
those guys, these kids...

that time I choked on fireflies because every third word I'd say illuminated the sky and between every spark of light the shadows clenched my eyelids.  Or all of the times Elmer fastened them shut and I saw nothing but sticky, icky white glue

poems about something true, like the genetic connect between my cats- they're sisters
or the non genetic connect between me and my stepsister- i miss her
poems about hating the way I destroy each building block I set aside
poems about hanging on for the ride
I could write a poem each and every day about the birth of the earth in may
but when springtime arrives and lucious life thrives I can barely get out of bed
poems about irony
poems about the law of murphy

There's a poem I've written too many times about the criminal I am and all of my crimes
there's a poem I have not yet written in ink, about not knowing what why or how my thoughts think
there's a poem I will write, and it fills me with fright yet gets me through the night
because the beauty blooming from your eyes intoxicated me, like the hug from a drug pollenating

You can't simply try to write a poem- upchuck the acidic thoughts you think
they weigh you down like past and future hangovers
molded like heavy boulders almost tipping off your shoulders- you can't simply try to write a poem

It's like loving your cousin though you've barely known him
like a conch pressed to trying to hear the ocean
but it's really just your blood pumping in motion

Pens get lost like frost in Boston, if buildings collapsed
I'd rebuild the past to trillions of ticks of the clock ago
before this part of the world became recognized and known,
before any stitched on the American flag were sewn

When the soilage looked like foliage until days passed by and by again
Through April showers which brought May flowers birthing the earth with succulent screenplays of baby's breath, crocuses- a pollen infused haze
turns rays of sunshine up in farenheight
I learned to pull tight on two bunny eared shoelaces and saw faces and faces and went places and places watching the trees beg their mother to leave traces, some green- no orange!- no red,- please!

But you're beautiful my darling, crooned mother
you're not like any other, you're original.  A vision-
an extension of me, and you will die
you will die
and when you die as you are now your limbs
will forever be used as adjectives for poetry, stories, emotions
you will die and your spirit will rev up it's engine for another lifetime of a ride

Do not dwell upon regrets you wish to sell or branches and leaves that have long ago fell, or things in this life that did not go so well- like wanting a mac but owning a dell
or dreams moaning groans from the gates of hell
waiting for you to turn off the lights

It fights you doesn't it?  
Every something and every nothing
it fights your lungs, begging, tossing
A squirming urge, this need, an insatiable hunt, a crave you can't feed
Leads your fingers to the notebook
filled with castles, legalized marijuana, maybe pirates with hooks- Anything in those pages
I want those pages
I need those pages
I have to fill those pages with this mess of a dress
I hastily waste my precious time with everyday
so I can cover up the dog puke stained
Ludacris way
I feel all the time
Gotta find a pen

Life, will take your hands and break every tendon in your fingers
Life, will rip your fingernails off like the 12th ticket in Stop&Shop;'s deli counter line
the cold, dead selects you purchase by the ounce for weekly lunches remind us all
of the patience we practice each day
Patiently waiting in line patiently waiting to buy
He's waiting for her to text back and she is waiting for her heart to attack
She's been hearing the war for years now, gunshot reminders and grenade bombers explode through her bloodstream to haunt any destiny of peace

We want you to be Okay
everyone wants some semblence of comfort but there are needles in my eardrums
the music isn't piercing me anymore
I miss notes and sailboats streaming into me
I know where they are but my fingers are limp

Life will numb your fingers
so when your mother buys you gloves and hats on your birthday
muster the golden mustard stained napkin in your heart and wipe the selfish tears
A piano is unrealistic, that opportunity passed years ago

Be thankful for the very light reflecting off of the silverware, remember
Life will never be simple or fair
you will always be here but wish you are there
Sometimes you will feel like nobody cares
and that's alright
nobody has to care
except for the gremlins that live inside my hair

I will listen, if you have something not nothing to say that can grab my attention
like a bear snatching salmon, I will listen to the information you chain together
and sprinkle into the air if that sprinkle can sparkle
However, If that sprinkle cannot sparkle yet is sprinkled nonetheless, I will smoothly acquiesce
stealing my future time and progress, to hearing your sprinkled nonsense.

For words left unheard can stain one’s terrain,
inside their mind where vulnerable thoughts formulate
and like a club they congregate  They seep through every crack
and they weep with all the lack, of strength and inner willpower you solemnly accept is not there.

But you’re dreadfully wrong!  Enough force to move mountains lies within your bag of tricks
yet you’re still focusing on a whining stair you need to fix.
The whine in the coal mine echoing for days
it’s been your voice all along finding its way through the maze,
of minerals and fears buried in the rubble, excavating through has been causing you some trouble.


Breathe as if this oxygen is sweet and pure, breathe as if you feel relief and sure
Patience wafts inside you not causing a stir, but in content, a peaceful breeze, an all knowing powerful cure.

Animistic, not reminiscent
or exotic but disgustingly ignorant
of the ******* space in the present
A poem that doesn’t have to do with emotion?
Who let him in the building, oh, the same ******* who put 85
Security cameras and the same ******* who believes
Visible shoulders will create testosterone molded boulders
In the crotches of every boy’s too low jeans

I haven’t thought schoolwork was important
Since I knew what passion meant, and I’m no different
Than any boy or girl around but I know I am not anything near lost or found
Pertaining to a missing student.

Do you ever consider the other option?
That contumacious behavior is nothing to fear
Because although the misunderstood is misunderstood
Think of who told you should
Now what if they opted for could?

Or will you settle for chopping the wood for your fireplace
settling for our settler’s stolen goods

Looking at treetops nose gasping for scent
Holds importance trophy gilded worth since
Carrying mellifluous leaves have lent
Flowers lack of breath, air inconvenience

Embarrassment fell swiftly towards you
As falling leaves do with radiant haste
Feel buried as ground beneath us doth grew
Solemnly, earth sighs beneath you, “WASTE”

Hands of yours once held mine, branches extend
Eyes locked in perpetual motion
Laws of time if only if they could bend
Remember when you once felt emotion?

Weakness lies in your treetop fallacy
Strength in thine own inner democracy