Poems are meant to be read,
ALOUD.
Meant to be screamed off of mountains,
and rooftops,
and whispered in corners.
Meant to be expressed
by the person who feels the emotion
to another who will treasure it the same.

The words should jump off of the page,
to the point that they cannot be contained,
when your eyes hit each word,
your mouth and ears have to
go along for the ride.
To see how the words
flow.
How they roll off the tongue
and fit together.

Not just in your head
but in real life too.
Shared aloud over phone connections because
you just can't wait until you see them next
and shared in coffee shops,
but instead of passing over the page,
read it,
feel it,
and express it.
Make the person sitting behind you turn their head
and listen because
something great is happening.

Remember how you felt when you wrote it,
relive it.
No matter the emotion,
do not fear the vulnerability it may bring,
take it.
Even if you are alone,
in your car,
in your room,
in a park-
speak it, yell it, whisper it,
but let it go
farther than the page.

Can't we just put a cork,
up there.
To stop the bleeding,
and ickyness,
and maybe even the
cramps.

It is a hassle and just puts such a damper on my life.
Makes things mundane and awful,
I can't wait for it to be over,
and for the exhaustion to
end.

The fatigue, irritability, and-
did I mention the cramps?
Where's the pay off here?
What do I get for suffering through this
on a monthly basis,
since 13!?
Silver-lining, my ***!

The perks seem to be seriously lacking here,
so where is the cork or some midol
to ease the pain,
maybe even a heating pad...?
5 more days,
the countdown
has begun.

You think you are such a revolutionist.
So urban, so very
hipster

You think these people are you
are fascinated by the mindless babble
that is coming out of your
mouth-that you don't even seem to
understand.

You love to hear yourself talk,
and could carry on a conversation,
by yourself,
but you need the nonsensical nods
and approval of others.

You are really just an empty shell.
Through the demonstrations to explain
the complex things that only you
pretend to understand, you are really
just a pretentious *******
who is just as mainstream
as the rest of us because you are
sitting in Starbucks,
Wearing brand new Converse.

This fact seemed pretty **** self-evident from just about birth on.
I seemed to inconvenience my family, especially my mother.
So with my multitudes of half-sisters
that refused to see me as anything more than just that,
half,
my mother, who was exhausted and
inconvenienced at the sight of me, my will and
my troubled path,
I was a real life Cinderella,
From     The      Start.

Since I was just there,
my mother figured she might as well use me,
to do her bidding.
I wouldn't be home for weeks and would arrive to an empty,
messy house and a two-page list
of things to do.
Sound familiar?
Just like a fairytale, huh?

So I ask, where's my fairy godmother,
and my glass slipper along with the Prince Charming,
to make sure it fits?
And my mouse helpers,
to make cakes and dresses with me?

Well I might not have a fairy godmother or a glass slipper,
and I'm still missing the **** mice,
but I just might have found,
My Prince...
<3

Why do I take that first sip?
Because after that, well it's all over,
it's just a blur of colors,
and empty laughs,
and bad dance moves.

So why do I even start?
I go in knowing exactly what to expect,
I know,
I'm not that **** naive.

And it all seems fun,
on this superficial,
drunken,
level.
Until, I have to ***.
And I don't want to go all alone,
by myself.

At this point, all modesty is out the window anyway,
so if someone comes along,
I don't have to face the reality of what I've done,
what I've become.
But if not,
then it comes down,
hard,
it hits me in the face and
I just feel stunned.

I just want to be done peeing!
But we all know that drunken bathroom runs
take the longest...
And it all comes at once,
the guilt, shame, resentment, anger, sadness, a want to stop and change, but even after all of this,
When I get an invitation,
I just can't say,
No.

I hope that our kids inherit our sense of humor,
and the sense of what a smile truly means,
I hope they inherit your stature so that people know they can trust them,
breathe, and just feel safe,
my fiery passion, partnered with your leaps and bounds of compassion.
I hope they have the same caring and understanding,
that I see in your eyes, along with the green and gold flecks of mine.
I hope they inherit my singing voice that tugs at your heartstrings,
and for their sakes I hope they have your dance skills,
and that my clumsy gene manages to skip a few generations.
I hope they have your sturdy, healing hands, covered in my soft chinchilla skin.
I hope they have your seemingly endless heart and never have to experience any of my pains.
Your plump perfect lips and our thick blonde hair.
Your strong sense of self and ability to look at all sides, but just a bit of my indecisiveness.
Our spontaneity and your good ideas.
Your love of breakfast and our courageous spirits but maybe,
Your cautious driving habits.
Your Smile that makes me melt, but ****,
if they do we are going to have some heartbreakers on our hands.
<3

My Breath,
quivers, shakes,
as I try to exhale.
My feet,
slip beneath me, and
I lose my balance, but
I have no doubt that you'll catch me.
And you do.
I lay on your shoulder and you whisper,
sweetly, in my ear, "Are you okay?"
I nod and smile,
though you can't see it.
I think that, somehow,
my happiness is radiating through your bare skin.
You run your fingers across my back,
and say that something about this,
just feels
right.
And so we lay there,
intertwined,
just being.
<3