I believe
That writers are
So brave
Because each time
They start writing
Blotting ink onto
Their paper
Frustratingly typing on
Their laptop
They rip their heart out
Of their chest
And show the world
What it's made of.

there was a boy with a racecar bed who never liked vanilla, but chocolate instead.

there was a boy who liked to climb trees, who watched cartoons, & ate his peas.

there was a boy who liked to run fast, who was too fearless, who was never in last.

there was a boy with big blue eyes, who liked reading books, & stormy skies.

there was a boy with long brown hair, with a piercing here & pink scar there.

there was a boy with cigarette breath, who liked fast cars, & wrote about death.


there was a boy with a deep glassy stare, who cried at night, because life isn't fair.

The word “****”
Is something kids should never have to learn
You should never have to know what is means
To be pushed down and have them forced upon you
Its nothing youth should know
Its nothing kids should know
Its nothing anyone should know
Its just a four letter word
Turned into a world of horror
Where the word “*****”
Gets thrown around at the wrong times
How did I ever bring this hell upon myself
When the clothes I was wearing were baggy
The shirt I had was collard
My pants were long, no holes
How did I scream out
“Take my innocence
Its okay I’m thirteen today”
Because I didn’t,
And if I do recall
I said the word “no”
So how does that give you the right to say
“Oh boys will be boys”
*He was no boy
He was almost twenty

it is 11:26 at night and i want skin to skin contact.
i want your hips and my hips
your thighs and my thighs,
your lips and my lips.
i want parallel lines to be demonstrated with our bodies.

it is 11:27 at night and i suddenly want to know how you move,
how your joints ache, which scars you hide
and which scars you aren't afraid of talking about anymore. i want to know about the collection of bruises you have.
what makes you sigh and which kind of sighes you sigh under bed sheets and how they differ from your sad sighs.

it is 11:31 at night and i have no idea how to tell you that i want my teeth to grasp your lip and my fingers touching the small of your back, the arch in your muscles and your breath.

it is 11:33 and i promise this is not a *** poem.

i started writing about girls in my pre-teens
and never stopped.
i started writing about love after i lost all my baby teeth and never stopped.
i started writing about your knee caps on the edge of couches, my fingers on your thighs
and oh man,
will it ever stop?