In the summer of 15;
I fell in love before 16.

Sweet as it was, we both felt stuck in an
everyday lover's dream.
High school sweethearts, spending our time
kissing in every free period. No thought of
taking things slow. In the three months it became
so serious. I was young, she was older; she had
the richness of my heart, and I felt poorer.
My bae, I used to call her. Back in the world's
crazy phase, the good old days. When boo, was
part of the common pet names.

I'd save the small change of tuck; to try my luck,
of buying things to keep her heart. We never started
off with hugs, but loved kissing inside an empty class.
Love letters I always wrote for her, were too many.
Filled with my confessions, ***** intentions,
and their best mentions.

My first inspiration to pen out poetry.

The summer of 15,
filled with the songs about loyalty.
I openly told her all my secrets, wishes, and all. I had
fallen in love, but never did fall.

I saved up to buy her a birthday present. A silver watch,
perfumes, lover letters, and a necklace.
The first Valentine I got a rose, and was truly
lost for words. Her name said in vein, sent chills
in all my nerves.

But I was dating her, and all of her friends,
buying out my heart for her,
to be all her friend's shares and spends

In the summer of 16,
we broke up on Valentine's day. Her
eye was caught by another, of higher richness to me.
I was told I should feel guilty.
"I did it because, you did it first to me!"
All I could muster was a long "really"

But she'd meet karma, and along with teenage drama.
The one that wooed her heart, did woo three others.
I went on to lose her number, in classes barely
speaking to each other. Having peers, insult me for
potential years, just added to the hidden marks
of last night's tears.

In the summer of 17,
my idea of love had changed.
I wasn't feeling the same about the event's of love
coming my way.

So now you know why I hate Valentine's day.

the hardest thing
is being in a loving relationship,
while knowing
they're not the one

I fall for your beautiful eyes
when they're shy like a wet rose
I melt in your happy smile
because it never draws a close.

I feel sipping your sweet voice
when you speak to me,
It fills my heart with the love
as the rising tide does the sea.

I feel pretty romance for you
in the dusk at the river
when I walk side by side with you
in the light cold shower.

Your hand makes my dreams divine
with the warming touch;
Darling, I want you to be just mine
because I love you so much.

everybody wants to feel good
everybody says that they would
but sometimes life just doesn't play nice
and all they do is complain they don't get treated right
what happens when you run out of people to blame
what happens when you run out of hearts in this game
hate to be caught in a hall of mirrors
hate to be caught where your exterior is inferior
when you know your interior is superior
or to be more exact, you think that you're better than this
you think that you're worth it, you think you deserve it
but do you really if you don't work for it
not everyone understands what it is to feel like you can't
to feel like everything in the world is out of your hands
feeling like whatever you do won't amount to anything
when all you have to lose is everything
what's the goal? a wedding ring or a home?
or a six figure job? would that make you feel whole?
guess you'll never know. you'll never realize until you grow old.

Like a bullet set on it's trajectory,
I'm off inflicting damage.
Some kind of mental mastectomy,
I'm no longer a woman.
I've cut parts off of me,
just to fit some picture.
This self imposed image super-imposed,
designed from the ground up.
It's a machine, grind the babies down,
pass the money round.
It's one cold step you take against your fellow man.
You live up to the hype, or you die in the grind.

If I don’t grind.
My son don’t eat.
If I don’t grind.
My son will struggle to land on his feet.
If I don’t grind.
My family will go through a winter with no heat.
If I don’t grind.
I settle for defeat.
If I don’t grind.
I’ll continue to be underneath.
If I don’t grind.
I won’t live a rich life.

the ****** on fifth street
don’t ask you to buy whiskey;
they take it from you.

there are too many
words—lascivious, lewd, *****—
used to describe them.

and too many names—
**** ***** harlot ***** *****—
used to deride them.

you want one tonight
someone who’ll snort ketamine
whose laugh sounds like bells.

someone to talk to
for thirty bucks an hour;
the best ones come cheap.

the best ones come drunk
(when they’re not doing molly)
and dance in the street.

the best ones wear rouge
that glows under streetlights and
rubs off on your lips.

the best ones **** quick
and leave quicker—out through the
back door, and lights out.

you haven't answered my calls in a few days
it shouldn't mean so much
but when the phone line lay empty,
i told the trees all about you through my tears
i left out the part where i said 'i love you' first
because i still pretend it was you

the moon listened when the trees went to sleep
and i asked her if she could keep a secret
she said she could, but i know she told the stars anyway
i whispered real quiet, so the wind couldn't carry it too far away

i'd love you, even if you broke me