didn't you ever know what it was like
to be just so sad and lonesome
like touching your face was another stroke
on the wrong key of a broken old piano

there are those who'd understand
the thoughts running through your head
but there are those who'd soon forget
cause it's too hard to try and help

so you'll feel like you're the wrong one
for anybody else to love
cause wasting their time is so wrong
when there's better things to be done

and you'll push them away at once
then you'll bleed a little blood
cause why leave a mark on the world
when you could leave another scar

but soon enough it'll be too much
and they'll say it was so ****** sad
that you were always so hopeful
why'd you go and do a thing like that

cause people miss even the quiet ones
it's your presence that comforted them most
but without a word of their approval
no way you'd get a word of your own

Your life is a poem,
You are the poet.

Your body is the canvas,
Your hands are the brushes.

Your mouth is music,
Your words are a song.

Your eyes are the prologue
Deep from your soul.

"That's so gay!"
A use of
Slang and slander
In
The
Wrong
Direction.

If they use
Gay as in
Happy
The
Way
Most
Have
Forgotten
It would be a good expression.

But if they use it
As a reference to
Homosexuality
Then
I
Don't
Get
It
I
Won't
Get
It.

You can't be more gay
Than someone else.
There's no scale
Or
Chart
To measure
Gayness

And it's a bad expression
So gay is
Bad?

No.

Gay is not bad.

People who say "That's so gay."

They are bad

We sit in this room talking and laughing
No judgement, no secrets
And a large box of M & M's shared among friends
I cherish each word and every obnoxious chortle
Every anecdote, which fills this space
I cling to this moment and wish for it to endure
While we sit in our private sector of the world
Set aside from the foundation shattering headlines and news bulletins
We neglect the impending deadlines created by worldly demands
For a moment nothing on earth matters

In your ocean of fury and confusion,
I’m a quaint coral reef,
representing all that you are not.
I am one,
singular blinking light, on an antique arcade game.
Contributing to the violent light show of the device,
yet serene in my own monotonous repetition.
**I am alone.

Tomorrow is another day,
and I’m supposed to be happy about writing this.
Tomorrow is another day
that is not the day I want it to be.
I need two more tomorrows until I can break free from this plaid conformity
and wear the freedom of the weekend.
After those two tomorrows,
I’ll be begging for a yesterday.
Tomorrow is another day,
another drive,
another monotony of hours
strung together by breath and boredom.