I write and write and write
Yet nothing comes to mind
That seems spectacular
Poetic and lovely
We have all been slaves to paper
Ink our words
Bound in printed chains
Of words.
We are captivated by each other.
Held like birds in cages
Like the first time you fell
Head over heels in love
That type of captivated.
Bound in other's chains.
And so captured by everything around us
We cannot escape
Death is a gravitational crime
That no law seems to prohibit
So I write and I write and I write
And I know, things will not be the same
Because I write

I remember when we were first together
And I said I felt so happy I could die.
You said you were the right fit for me
And to you I believed.
But in reality you didn't have what i need
So I left
But you didn't have to cut me off
Act like I was a nothing.
I felt so alone.
I am so alone.
So don't treat me like a stranger.

Homework is unappetizing
My stomach cannot seem to digest it.
The book seems delicious enough
But the aroma of the T.V. Is overpowering
I growl in hunger for something.
So many options
So little energy

Silence is powerful.

What I wouldn't give
For some news
Be it good or bad
Something new to tinker with in my mind
Something to glance at to stare at
To take in
To lose my breath at
Anything at all.

It's been months since I've last been
The water took the melody line
And destruction became the harmony
Leaving dissonance in its wake
And trees bent to play that
Minor tune
Mud rose inch after inch,
Outlining the beat of this
Soaked symphony
It's in duple meter
No scratch that, it was in triple,
The tempo was about 200 waves per minute
The screech of wood scraping
Wood had short solos
With arpeggios
And the sound of sirens and
Screaming crescendoed this
Soaked symphony
The different pitches were so ranged in tonality that people had
No chance to save the time
To pick up things they need
The splash splash splash was the
Ostenato in the background
Perhaps a pedal tone
And the drip drip drip
Made anyone who heard the piece shudder so violently
They were shivering and
Quivering
Like an arrow shot from a now
Thus the effect of the
Soaked symphony
Played in the orchestra pit of Lyons Colorado

I have big hair
Hair that looks like medusa
Using loreal.
I have hair that is a
Short version of Merida
But isn't as firey as the mad hatter's
Hair but is
Big enough to be called that type
No I didn't stick my finger
In a light socket today
It's just my hair
My
Big
Poofy
Hair
That seems untamable at the very least
An accomplishment for anyone
I will never control it
And yet it is almost a super power
To have untamable
Hair

My foot hurts
But it's also the rest of my body too
I dance my fingers over my arms
And I feel like I'm sticking
My whole arm in a light socket
I bend over and my
Back creaks like a door that needs
To be oiled
My toe hurts and in turn hurts my foot
And in turn hurts my body and in
Turn makes me tired.
So thanks foot
Thanks toe
Thanks me.

And it feels good to be breathing again
Because writing is breathing
And I feel the words flow
Through my lungs
Like water through gills.
And I breathe the language of words
Emotions, and passion.
And I try not to hold my breath.
But sometimes I hold it for days
At a time. And
Each time a little part if me
Wants to die
Because I don't realize I'm
Holding my breath.
So here's to breathing,
Raise your glass high.
And take a
Breath

Hearings somewhat talk about pools
And brown things at the bottom
Of a bucket
And pumps
And family plans and I'm standing here writing this poem
And wondering what I'm doing
She is my friend
But yet I've never felt stranger
Because to her family
I am a stranger

He asks and it's not like I can be rude
Because I'm not that
Type of person
But yet I'll act nice
Pretend to bat my eyes
Perhaps a wink thrown in there
For good measure
But none of the sincerity
Not from me.
The dinner is the dinner
The table the table
And the napkin is a napkin
Laying there by laying there
Only I lack sincerity
Dripping it you'd think i was
Mrs buttersworth
But he grins and believes
I'm the person I'm showing him
Which is really just smoke and screens
And pretty things,
Not the real girl,
The poet the crazy poet
With a heart brain mouth eyes ears
And made of flesh and bone
Not smoke.
I never knew smoke could be so attractive.

The time when your heart
Flutters like a bird
And you can't let it out of its cage
Because it won't survive.
And your palms drip with sweat,
Flowing water as if from the Nile
And you couldn't part them even if
You tried.
You eyes water and tear.
Yawning comes on like a spell
Of hallucination.
Your feet might behind tiny
Tap dances under your desk.
Your knuckles may be cracked
Your mind wanders, and if things
Get really bad, you start to doze off.

What causes these symptoms?
The most dreaded time of the year.
While it might not be cold or flu
Season, it most certainly is the
Season of
Test taking.
So cover your eyes,
Get some more sleep.
And pray that you don't catch it.

Time is a cruel mistress
With a smile so hot
You think it could cook a pizza
All by itself
Time stays with me when I wait
It taunts me
Giggles at me
Laughs at me like a
Silly school girl.
And it never leaves.
I cannot ignore it.

But when I can ignore it,
When I'm having such a
Glorious time that time
Is on the back burner
It gets pouty and runs away
And then I am again waiting
And it laughs at me
Payback for my efforts to ignore it.
Time is a cruel mistress

I like books that end with questions
They make me think
About birds with fins
And humans with wings
And what to do with these pitiful things
Like my life

I like books that end with questions
Because you never get the full
Answer
And you always wonder what could
Have happened?
And if I was that character,
Would it have changed?
And you start thinking again

And I think that's why I like
Books that end with questions
Because I have started to think again
And it's been so long
Since I last began
So I'll try to never
Stop

And I wonder what I am even doing
With my life
For there is no such thing as a good
Or pretty teenage romance
Every one is lustful, ****, and super
Ficial and I wonder
Where am I
That I don't want that?
Many people do, don't get me wrong
But how many teens hold hands for
All their dates and don't even bother
Sharing their breath, saliva, and lips?

Do you ever want people to ask you
Certain questions?
Ever feel like you have something
To prove? Or someone
To prove yourself to?
If only they would ask you the right questions...
What do you think of music?
How does my soul seem to you?
What do you think of me?
Am I being too presumptuous?
And then those moments when you want them to ask you anything at all,
Anything so it isn't just an interview
With you on one side,
Lacking recorder or a notebook
And them on the other
And it isn't even for posterity
Yep....
How are you this morning?
Good
Did you sleep well?
Yes
Is your throat still bugging you?
Yes.
And that's the end of it. Your interview is worth three words and no more.
Even a nice, did you too? Would work.
But she likes to be the interviewee and if I want debate, contemplation, joking I best look elsewhere.

She chatters on and on
About her guy,
Though they're not dating yet
They're as close as the fingers on my hand.
And I'm the awkward thing in the middle
Not even an object just a thing
Doesn't she realize I'm jealous?
Yes I guess
I am a single pringle
Singing a single jingle
But that's not really me.
I don't want to be stuck
And I wonder
Has this ever happened to me before?
Has this ever happened to you?

You expect me to like you
After you've asked me to prom
You expect me to say yes and no
And to grin and bear it
And to introduce myself to your friends
Because you won't introduce me
Expect me to be "happy" with the
Stigma you gave me
Because you have made everyone
Silently expect
What you expect of me
You have made me famous
A celebrity and when people
Ask if I'm the girl you went to prom with
I grit my teeth and wonder what I
Did to deserve this stigma
Do me a favor
And
Expect me
To be alone
Expect me to not love you
But to be an acquaintance not
Even a friend
For that seems to close for me
Expect me to cringe at the sound of
Your name
And try to hide myself from you
And your family
Expect nothing from me

I lean on the side of my car
Watching the numbers perpetually spin
And realize it's not gas I'm buying
It's time
Time that I will spend in the car
Uselessly driving around
Wondering what I'm doing with my life
But I'm also buying distance
Distance that I can drive away from
My family my friends
My enemies
Distance I can sit there and zone off
And think
But if I'm not buying gas and instead buying time
What in really buying is money
Because time equals money
But it doesn't feel that way
It's always negative
And the equation in the end will equal zero

Shouldn't be doing this
Super hungry
Won't have lunch
Until I go home
In two hours
My hands a pruny and withered
Like raisins
From doing the dishes
And praying for those
Desperate enough
To come into my mjnd

There is a pattern to this
Poems are the soul of the poets who
Write on the paper, not on the
Fabric, blue and pink I'll take one of
Each other looked at one another and
Knew that I was a fool in
Love that dessert, the tang and the
Sweet pea doesn't cry on your
Pillow and sheets I pulled of my
Bed head that's me
And my name is iris and
I see patterns

My voice is throttling
And it seems unusual for a
Voice to throttle
But here am I
Speaking loud and soft in one
Phrase of the sound vibrating from
My vocal chords and
I hope that it won't throttle again
Just like I have been throttled and
Floored by the actions of my fellow
Human beings are what live on this
Planet is called earth and it is full of
Water rushing over my head and I
Scream fills the air as someone lays
Shot but missed the swishing of the
Basket on the front of my bike with
Wheels spinning in my head
And I would love to speak the words of my mind
If my voice didn't throttle

By myself
Feeling sick writing a poem
Hearing out and backto pump and
Feeling sick

Who always seems to be busy
When I sit behind two other kids in line
For the person with the beginning of the alphabet
Why does he have so many letters?

I combat my urge to run from math
Class by being poetic
I let the words flow out of my mouth
Like a waterfall and my
Friend laughs as I attempt
To make poetry out of thin air
It's easier to make it out of thick air
You have more to work with.
I tell her I'm figuring out the
Meaning of life is life
Because I don't get what I'm
Saying I just don't want to realize
I can't count to three
As my friend pointed out
During a card game
In which I lied and they called me out
I'm not superman you know
And I can't even figure out
What the cosine is of 23
Without my calculator
And I want to punch
The people who say English
***** because it's hard
They don't see what I see
If English *****
It ***** like a vaccum
Or a straw
A good *****.
And I remember falling asleep with a
Book on my head in the hallway
Hoping for tomorrow
When I get to slam poetry

Hello again to the words
On a blank page of my
Heart that got crushed
Under the rotating tires of your
Rejection
Because I'm not good enough to
Be seen as anything other
Than a human being
Not an artist or an imagination
But numbers and a name
An address and a telephone number
And haven't even told you what my favorite color is.
It's purple.
So hello again to the life I once wanted
To be a diva
Because I thought I was such a star
In the universe
Next to Ursa Major
She's not my mother
No I'm an orphan
Alone.
Hello again to the sound of the discord
Of the out of tune piano
I've been playing my whole life and
My name is not Chopin

Still
Void
Empty
Full
Null

I'm board
Board out of my mind board
Board as in so board
That I can even saw through my own
Boardom
I'm so board I have to nail myself to
Something else so I'm not board
Board as in board that I paint over
My fatigue and lack of enthusiasm
Board as in obstinate
So obstinate I don't even know what
Death is anymore
It doesn't visit me
There is no gravitational theft here.
Board as in people step on me
To get to something board
Board as in I've been hung under something else for stabilization.
Yeah that's it I'm board

Do I plan to get up
Early on weekends to finish my
Homework?
Do I plan to celebrate my grandmother's birthday
By saying:"happy birthday I'll be upstairs learning about photosynthesis?"
Of course not.
Homework interrupts the daily life
The life I planned out
I have so much I want to do
And so little time to do it
I want to fly in the sky, arms outstretched
I want to hide in the dark night of
My soul and talk
I want to swim in the warmest water
Until my skin withers like a raisin
I want to watch the sunrise
And wonder if it had any homework
So this is me 7:18 am
And I'm doing homework
On a saturday

It's funny how alone
Someone can feel in the middle
Of a swarm of people.
Who talks to me
Who asks why alone in a crowd of people

They tell me I'm not good enough
Too short, too fat, too crazy
Your curly hair seems eccentric
And you will never fit into society
I must wedge myself in between
Society's grooves
Like the knots in a board of wood
Only I'm bored,
My hair is in a knot
And the groove I seem to fit in is the
One labeled "weird" by society.
Perhaps I don't fit in that box
Packed in so tightly I
Can barely breathe.
So they tell me to get thinner
Get smaller
And perhaps
Don't even exist

Yes they called them foolish stupid might be a better term
Why leave
They said
It's not that bad
They left because they didn't want to hear those terrible words
And I secretly agreed with them
But why did I not leave and
Become the minority?
Why did I not stand up with them?
If I am to die why not die with friends?

If only people saw my poetry
They would know how much of a genius I am
If only people saw my dangerous blue eyes, they would see how mysterious
I am
If only people saw my heart
They would know how kind I am
If only people saw my thoughts
They would know how smart I am
If only people saw me
They would know that
I am
Alive

It's cloudy weather
Weather like London weather
Like the fog that hides
The villains of Sherlock Holmes
In the mist of the clouds
Yeah that weather.
And I write this,
With headphones in my ears
But no music
Listening to a teacher
Mutter like a mosquito
Insignificant
For now
She says she wants to read books
And all I want to do is curl up by a fire
With a flannel blanket
And a cup of cambric
And write

Today's the day
When people
Marched
Down their streets
Away from their houses
Towards the big outstretched arms of liberty
And equality
Today the
Fifth of May
Hooray hooray
I say
With paper flowers on either wrist
I'm American I don't understand
Your culture
Only the diversity of my own.
Which can include yours
But we shouldn't be alone

Sitting on the ground
On ear listening to music
Out of my headphones
And talking at the same time
Double take
Double trouble
Double face
Double life
Double

How strange is a hollow soul?
Left for dead in a berry bush...
How vast doth love creep in,
And fill the hollow soul again.

I could eat the cookie
But I already feel queasy
But you didn't have to cut me off
The song sings
And I type whatever comes into
The cauldron called my brain
Hey, that wasn't supposed to be poetic
But yet I feel as though I can't stop
Being poetic it comes like the
Air I breathe
It comes from the higher power
And I being the speck of dust
Am happy to oblige
So this is lunch
Thursday
And I sit and type
Whatever comes to my mind

Still half asleep
Nose is runny
And I don't even want to begin
About my hair.
But I am alive
And that's all that matters
Another day appears before me
So carpe diem
Shall I live
In fear and hide in a box all my life?
Or live to watch the sunrise settle on the far side of the hill?

The stench is repugnant
The smell of division
Multiplication
And the reeking stench of algebra
The rotting odor of trig
Is stronger than the B.O. Of the kid
Sitting behind me
This is repulsive
I fight to stay awake
But I cannot fight the urge to run
Away far away
To the deepest jungles
To the darkest depths
To that cross in the middle of two
Roads diverged in a yellow wood
Why can't I take the one less traveled by?
But instead the torture is about
To begin
Calling for my blood
Calling for my brain
Calling for my thoughts.

I am dying
Because I am running out of yarn
But I don't mean this literally
Of course not
Laugh near me
But don't laugh with me.
What if all of our lives
Are woven into a tapestry
Called fate?
And I'm dying because I'm running out of yarn.
No knitting for the knitter
Girl
The artist is out of supplies
Full of ideas
But where are the practicalities
In ideas without the supplies?
No one knows
So here's me
Wanting yarn
More scarves, more hats
More happy faces
That I can give them smiles
And I am dying
Without happiness

Sitting on my bed eating noodles
And thinking of when
People didn't like rap in their poetry
After all, it is not rap
That makes a poem beautiful,
But the passion, emotion
And the creation of the soft, silky
Syllables as they slide out of
Your mind and onto the page.
Where is the rap in that?
Why is my poetry to be squished
Underfoot,
My heart trampled on
My pearls before the swine
Because it contains no rap
Nor rhyme
Does a poem need these things
To be beautiful?
According to those who
Judge it so narrowly
They cannot see the beauty
To them words coming
Out of my mouth
Must be in order
A straight line
But where is the beauty in that?
Art is not made from straight
Lines but from curved ones.
Poetry is not made
From rap and rhyme scheme
But from the strings and emotions
Of the heart,
When plucked,
Made a mellifluous melody.
There is beauty in that.

The beginning
And it seems like
The next hill is
Unattainable,
Too tall,
Too scary,
And you're an ant next to
A mountain,
And you wonder why
You're here in the first place?
I too have crawled across those cracks and crevices, crying out in confusion and complexity. Crippled.
I too have thought it was impossibility
That held me back
Broken
Hoping
That this was destiny
That it isn't too big for me
And that impossibility
Is possibility
I'm so tired I let go
And for an eternal moment
I am falling
Breathless, heart pounding in my ears
I am terrified.
And when I fall, I land, perhaps
For the better
In square 1
And it's back to the beginning with me
Is square 1 really that bad?
We have to start somewhere.
Why not here?
Why not in the silent solitude of square 1
Sometimes I wonder why I must start over
Why am I so frail
So weak that it can't be attained
But there is always hope
And life allows plan Bs
And second chances
And perhaps one day
I  will climb that mountain after all
And look into the blistering sunlight
And see tons of other ants
That we're brave enough to do so

Some days it is better
To be silent
Some days it is better
To be as frail as a feather
One day I will be known
For a name not my own
One day I will see the face
Of God almighty
And witness his amazing glory
And none day I will be who I secretly
Hope to be
None day, not some day not one day
But none day
For that is the realist inside of me
The inner critic
They say none day
Because it can't be done
I cannot explain what I have done
None day I will understand
None day others will
Understand my intentions
And I will be
Accepted

They say 4/3 people
Are bad at math,
I guess I am one of them,
Belonging to something finally.
Belonging to a society that hates the
Shape of the number 3
And when asked the
Cosine of pi,the
Best answer
Is the silence of the dead
Welcome to the torture chamber
There's no need for that sign
The sentiments are already
Felt.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here
There's no need for those famous
Lines they are already
Inside every breathing body
Whose sweat slides down
The sides of their minds
In horror of having to learn the
Pythagorean theorem.
And yet there are some who have
Mastered this death
Some who we call geniuses
Not writers
Not artists
Nor talented speakers
But people who are smart
At what most people are not
Those are the geniuses
Not us
Never us
Never me

I'm can't apt being creative
My thoughts are overflowing
The muse is not being interrupted
And I am writing
And God is good
Today

They say eyes
are windows to the soul.
I see them as weapons,
I see them as weaknesses.
I see them as
caverns, so deep and dark you get
lost along the way.
I see them as mazes,
you can't even tell which way
is up or down anymore.
I think that when I look at people,
they see inside of me,
they see how scared I am,
how terrified I am,
and how frail my frame must be.
It's not eye contact,
but I contact.
For they see inside of me.

So if I don't look at you,
don't be offended,
I just don't want you to get
lost.

Why do I call myself
Iris,
when that is not my name?
Why hide behind a mask
I have fashioned for myself?
Perhaps it's for popularity
posterity
Something of that certainty.
But in truth, I have more connection
with Irises, than I realized.

Because I am scared of people,
and I know they are too.
Not all their petals are spread out,
revealing their inner thoughts.
But only a few,
and gradually too.
And I am too similar
to explain,
I reveal more petals to
people I know
than to
strangers.
I clutch them back,
hiding myself
within myself
till I become
nothing more than a
shell
or a mask.
Or a Iris.
Rebry

I sit and look at my planner
Hear the scientist in my head
And wonder if it's life I dread
If I left now
What would I do?
I cannot be a hermit
I must be around those who I
Want to avoid
People