All my life
I sought
an angel.
And he appeared
in order to say:
"I am no angel !"

when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?'
i tell them that i like real poetry
not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know.
i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION
and it doesn't have to make sense.
it doesn't have to rhyme, either.
poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about
like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas.
find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh.
find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.

I hate the way her eyes scan me over with jealousy. She's so enviousm but what does she think I have that she doesn't? I'm the diluted image of my mother's beauty, yes, & she wants that. But she doesn't realize that full pouting lips, the large startled etes, the palest coffee-cream skin comes with strings attatched, a think contract she has no idea about, full of clauses & fees. the very last page reads 'Amelia', signed with my blood but written in my mother's decided, sure hand. She doesn't see all the chameleon shades in me, or how I need them just to get by. She has no idea of my longing, my yawning morning yearning for the way she's the same girl every day. I admire he belief in (the lie) that no one can **** with her, while every person I meet makes something in me panic, wondering if they'll be the next to discard me after taking me out & finding that I'm both too much to handle & not enough to stick around for. She can shrug off a punch & barrel through a crowd, moses to any sea, any shore she finds herself at the edge of, while the simple swat of an absent hand creates ripples & gusts that send me tumbling, toppling *** over teakettle. She scans aisles of people, tasting, testing any that are above her minimum standard, but I've never had that kind of freedom; I've always been a sample, appetizer, appease me, please me. babe. She knows as well as I do the desperation for approval, for being desired, but the difference between us is that she refuses to change for anyone but herself while I need people to give me someone to be.

I'm afraid to write about you because
Ink makes me feel everything,
And everything feels so much more real
When my cursive words smudge up against
The side of my hand and stain it blue
As my pen races to keep up with my heart

But it can't be real,
Because I thought I was moving on,
I thought I was growing up,
I thought I knew all of this was
Foolish and starry-eyed

I thought, I thought, I thought
But maybe I need to stop thinking
And just let myself feel;
Feel the butterflies you put in my stomach,
Feel the pure bliss you infuse into bloodstream

And maybe I don't need to know everything,
Like exactly what you're thinking
Or exactly how I feel
Or how all of this is going to turn out

I guess what I'm saying is that
Everything isn't always going to be clear,
I may come up to "two roads in a yellow wood"
And not be absolutely certain which one I'm meant to take,
But I do know that whichever path I choose,
I'd like to be able to scan the trees and smile
Because you're there walking alongside me.