The short life of
Honey orchid oolong tea;
put to rest,
hot, on his tongue.
Boiling water and
bitter leaves
the color of his smiling eyes.
He’s drunk on red
and stuck between:
climbing Big Snow Mountain or,
a perfect day with
Her
beneath the sweet osmanthus tree.

So focused/ words are gone/ no reason to hold on/ hold on hold on hold on/ nothing to say/where have all yours words gone?/ hang on hang on hang on/ drama in my mind/ something big might come of this/ always the reason to leave you/ never a reason to leave you/ hold me tighter and i might not/ let go let go let go/ hold me hold me hold me/ and i might not let go

I hate to drive away from the sun
Leaves me with sorrow in my blood
Open doors leave me tightly spun
Six legs across the window pane
Legs so pale they make my mother look bright
Even she glows in the night like a puddle under lamplight

The confines of fourteen lines hold me down
The sovereign of the sonnet has trapped me
Now, what is there left to do but steal his evil crown?
Had I not convinced myself that this task would be
So simple, I might be wearing it by
Now. However, that is not the case at all.
Brutish thoughts assail as I contemplate on why
Shakespeare had the audacity to enthrall
The whole of England with his cruel, cruel mind.
I mean to say, his poetry is
Rather soft, and his words are rather kind
But the source of my frustration is all his
Doing. I’ve done it now though, haven’t I?
A sonnet completed in the span of one night.

Sometimes you have to be alone,
And sometimes you think you're going to cry,
And you do.
The tears will stain your cheeks down to your ears,
And you'll think back on when I would kiss your eyelids while it rained.
You've been growing under harsh light,
And your heart has rusted over, along with all your ferns.
Don't you know I still wait for you to call me after the shower to tell me that dogs chased you all the way home,
And when I grow up I'll tell myself that in time,
You must have grown towards the sun.

When did the music stop?
I don't know.
Last time my ears were open, we were listening to the Smith's.
"I've got no right to take my place with the human race," Steven told me.
And I listened.
I opened a bag of dried apricots that I'd found next to the record player.
They expired in 2015.
I ate them anyway.

I saw you glide around the basketball court today like the floor was made of freshly polished glass.
You didn't falter once.
You slid as easily as ball bearings across an endless marble table.
Circling & spinning & swaying & twirling.
Your dress was polka dot.
It whipped sharply in the wind.
I watched you skate until you rolled away, onto a gravel path.
Although your absence was as silent as the drifting of your blades,
As the sky went dark, I really wished you would have stayed.

I have one friend.
He is the only one who listens when I speak.
Even he grows tired sometimes.

My baby
I don't want your leftover time.
Although I am sad that you are no longer mine,
You don't know what you want, babe
And I think that's alright.
But I know that I'm worth more than your leftover time.

All this pent up anger comes from the blood
Between my thighs
Red will travel down my leg, staining skin and mind
Tears f
           a
             l
               l down my peeling cheeks
As salty as the words that leak
Out of my brain
From time to time

People should not have to teach their hearts to cease beating
Or remind themselves how to breathe
It is unfair

If I had four paws
I would feel no obligation but
to please you

I would sit by your side,
and stare straight into your mind

Innocence leaking from my eyes

You would pat my head
gently
tenderly
as if to say
I love you too

You know me
Challenging
I am the diatribe
The one you so despise
You call it complaining
A futile act in your eyes
I contain a heart of gold
Yet, you fail to look past the mold
Because
You are the cowardice

Afraid
Of what?
I have to ask
Afraid of what
Afraid
Of your son
For being gay?

Afraid
You ask, "Who made you this way?"
Blame it on the diatribe
The one who "complains"
Knock her down
You know what she'll say?

Listen to your son, man
Look into his eyes
He is just the same as you
Weary of disguise
Afraid of the stranger he feels he must become
Searching for acceptance
Realizing, there may be none

He has enough "friends"
That pat him on the back
Pretending they don't see

Because he's still not ready
To let his heart be free

This is your job
To comfort and accept
Not to question
Not to ruin
Or for you to deflect

Who made him this way?
You, not me

Here we are
Tension not dissolved
Diatribe and cowardice
The question still unsolved

The subject of our debate remains

Afraid to live
Afraid to love
Afraid to be himself because
You are the cowardice

Afraid of what?
Afraid of your son for being gay
Afraid, he asks
"Who made me this way?"