The ****** sun rises
To meet the green
boys preparing.

I watch the day divide.

Alas, if my story end here
Let it be one of courage
Not rage
Let it be of a human
Not a boy

Let my name be lost among the fallen
My soul forsaken among the ******
Let my story wrap its arms
around my brothers.
Let my death be life for them.

O! The gift I wish to give.
The sacrifice I face for them.
If my story end here
Let theirs live on.

What of those who place themselves in others?
Why, death.

The fool who trusts a stranger
Who can not see the buds
Of a flowering enemy
Revealed to be mine own self
Death awaits.

They've stolen, taken myself
By force, by sweet poison words
****** my life's marrow
Death comes to me

A friend,
That mortal sheet to lift
And I will emerge
Anew.

The doer
Is merely a fiction
Added
To the deed.

Some construct of morality
And self prescribed validity
Justifies the doer manipulates the language
Clarifies the plot

The deed.

The empty space between
Existence


And thought.

What is matter matters
And what matters do we find
Plausible?

Wing tipped tongues
Utter madness as their wings fly away.
It's art. Like a trash bag floating down an empty street.
Empty words float and circulate the masses.

Consumables.
We eat media, satisfied by garbage.
Wiping the latest episode of Tiger King off our chins,
We chomp on clickbait desserts.

The writers, thinkers, and philosophizers
starve.

Searching for anything with substance
they revisit old watering holes.
The marrow has been ****** from literature,
The cave is too real to re-enter,

But there is a rumble from within.

Weak but present.
The uprising is upon us!
Writers, Thinkers, and Philosophizers, rise!

Rise and pluck the birds from the sky,
steal their wings and soar.
Soar across time and spread the wisdom that has been bestowed upon you.

Orange face, war paint,
The White House wrapped in caution tape.
Right to ****, lives at stake,
I wonder when we'll get a break?

Sickness prevails,
the devil's in the details.
Bees are dying, nations crying,
Natural disaster underlying.

Wear a mask,
It's not a task.
Save yourself and stay at home,
Frontline heroes are not alone.

Look to the sky, look to the sea,
this fresh hell is reality.

I must caution you,
Against a world lacking conflict.

A wold enveloped in
Continual peace
is hell.

Without suffering,
Without anger,
There is no passion.

A world wothout conflict
Is a wold lacking the beauty of sacrifice
The love of conviction
The satisfaction of righting a wrong.

I must caution you,
Without wrongdoing, without war
There is no peace
Just
Consistancy.

Life doesn't have rules
it's nOt all laid out the the beginning
on clean paper
in black
And white.

Some say there is a plan,
some say there is nothing.
I Try to follow direction,
but there is none to follow.

Someone asked me what being a poet is like.
And I blushed.

Not because I was called a poet
(Which I'm not)
Not because my poems embarrass me
(Sometimes they do)

But because being a poet
Is like that dream.
You know that dream,
where you're naked in front of a class?

Being a poet, painter, and musician
Is like being naked.

You're exposed to the world,
The most private parts of you exposed.
Ready to be judged, lauged at, criticized,
And loved.

It's like the world is looking at you.
The ugly scar on your chest,
Stretch marks from being spread too thin,
Fat pockets from when you weren't strong.

Someone told me I have a comma problem,
It hurt, like somone telling me I was ugly.

I know I'm beautiful though.
I love my imperfections.
My writing is my own, unique.
No critisizm can stop me from being me.

I lay my words uncovered, unaltered
On the page. They wait, breathlessly.
Sometimes being a poet is hard and brave,
Other times it's fun and easy.

Someone asked me what being a poet is like
I said it was great, and then I started to
Write.

(Undress)

As a toddler my mom taught me
to use hands for games,
Patty cake, patty cake,
We had so much fun.

In 1st grade Mrs. Z taught me about hands.
The big hand represents the hours,
The small hand is for minutes,
And that skinny red one counts the seconds.

In high school Sarah Kay taught me
about holding hands, and hand models
She said "I read hands to tell your past."
Hands learn she said to me.

A coworker taught me to speak with hands.
Thumb in, 4 fingers up, thats "B" she said.
We could talk without moving our lips,
It was magic.

No one taught me the importance of hands,
Though.

The way you need to stretch your hands,
Reach out to the world and say,
"Here. Grab on, I won't let you fall"

How to make my hands, helping hands.
The kind with strong cracks and callouses
But they have a soft touch, gentle hands.

Hands that can stand the beating of
Negativity
Hatred
Rejection.

Hands that stay open,
Ready to accept whatever...
Gifts
The world gives them.

I want to learn how to use my hands,
To inspire a nation.

Who will teach me?

A simile is like a metaphor.
A metaphor is a similie,
Except if it forgot "like" or "as"

A similie is like checkers,
The rules are simple, easy to follow.
A metaphor is chess,
Complex and intricate.

Think of a simile as the store brand
A metaphor is the name brand
Of anything.

Metaphors are tests for the mind,
They make you visualize
Bear Mountain.

Similies are like little suggestions,
They point you in the right direction,
The Mountain was big like a bear.

Both important,
Both fun!

I like similies
Metaphores are love.

When the world is quiet,
Write.
Make its fire rage.

Pppzzzzzzzzz
The pan pops and sizzles
As I open the creaky wooden door.

Shhhhhhh
The kitchen sink sings,
He washes a pepper covered cutting board.

The sounds never change,
The routine is always the same.

I count on,
"How was your day?"
And "what do you want to drink."

Dependability, stability.
One thing know at the end of the day.


The plates clink as they touch the table.
"Lets eat."

There is me,
And
There is you.

I have my books,
You have your video games.

We have our lives.

There's my truck,
And
There's your car.

I have my lift kit,
You have your stereo.

Together though,
We make a whole.

Our half hears,
Connect to make one.

I'm writing this poem
At 10:24.

But in Guatamala

I'm writing this poem
At 8:25.

Time is relative.

I told them to disguise it.

Hide hope in despair,
Wealth in poverty
And beauty in hidiousness.

I told them to stash it away.

Sneak love into a hateful heart,
Oppotunity into the pocket of failure
And tuck intelligence under a fools tounge.

Cover it up
So those who are willing
To lose it all,
Have it all.

My children,
Take the chances that come from losing,
Gnaw on the bones of poverty,
crack them open
And **** on the marrow of a full heart.

Go confidently into the world,
Knowing the value of an ugly old coat.
The warmth and memories it carries
Wrap yourselves up in dreams past,
And realize the brightness of your future.

I told them to disguise it,
Now go find it.

I used to stare at the moon
In wonder.

The size of a pencil eraser
And bigger than my head,
All at once.

It was magical.

Now I stare at the moon
With hatered.

Another day wasted,
Another 24 hours spent,
Another miserable night.

My possibilities are limited,
Weigheted down by finance
Shrunk by stress.

I am smaller than a pencil eraser
To the big, gigantic, moon.

The hot sun went down,
Behind the towering trees
But night has "fallen."

Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.

Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.

Such a simple concept.
Good and Bad.

They say oil and water don't mix,
As they pour both into the glass.

There's a little bit of good in every bad situation,
When one door closes, another opens.

I can tell you about the worst day of my life,
now ask to me tell you something good about it.

Sweet and Sour,
Good and Bad.

If you think about it long enough,
You probably can't tell which is which.

"He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone"

****!
*******!
Cheat!

We condemn others,
For mirrored shortcomings.



"Love thy neighbor."

Mr. Jackson runs to catch the door,
You let close in his face.
As you rush to Church.

I help Mrs. Cunningham with her bags.
We stare a moment.

My friend says "you'll get good Karma"

I could use it in Hell.

I love it,
Snapchat, facebook, candy crush
Im high.

I sit at the table where we consume meals
Consumed.

Im lost in a colorful, fast paced, make believe world.
Missing the real wolrd.

I love it,
The instant gratification,
2 seond tweets and 60 second vines.

I feel the arms of the internet
Wrap around me,
Hold me tight and pull me close.

Pull me from my books,
Pull me from conversation,
Pull me from life outside this
5 inch screen.

I love my addiction,
And I don't know if I'll ever leave it.

I used to throw away my old clothes.

I lost it all for 1 year.

Now I drive around with blankets & socks,
to give the homeless.

I take a second,
Pondering the strange situation I've found myself in.

"How are you?"

Mom said don't talk to strangers,
Is he a stranger?
This man I see on the subway
Everyday?

"I'm fine, thanks"

My heart is pounding,
The sentance has taken my breath away.

He's a stranger I decide,
I finger my trusty phone,
My safe place in the screen.

"Buisness?"

I ignore him,
Because saying something would be rude.
I pretend not to hear.

My breath slows,
My heart calms itself.

And conversation dies.

Two sentances.
That's all we had.

Winter loves Summer,
Because it warms the heart
And melts the ice.

Summer loves winter,
Because it cools the temper
And whitewashes last years blunders.

South Carolina summers were hot,
They were long and dry,
And for Mama, they were lonley.

Mama lived at the very end of our street.
She lived alone,
No chil'ren and no Husban'

She spent her days makin' sweet tea
And leomonaide, and pound cake.
She'd sit on her ol' rockin' chair,
And she'd whistle.

Mama was the best whistler in town,
All the kids in the neighboorhood came by
To hear her whistle.

She'd watch over us,
Scold those in need of scoldin'
She'd tell us not to climb the big oak tree
But we still did.

I didn't know it then,
But those long summers
Were the best I ever had.

The ice in my glass of sweet tea
Shone like diamonds.
And Mama's song,
Still plays in my head.

South Carolina summer were hot,
And they were too short.

The sheets are melting.
They hung outside,
Clinging to anything they could,
Rooftops, signposts, streetcars.

They cry tears of life,
Nourishing dirt patches,
Where the flowerbeds will go.

The sun shines early now,
Allowing the moon to rest.
Stars no longer linger in the morning sky.

Buds wake up,
You can catch a glimpse of them,
Pregnant branches on trees.

The grass plays peek-a-boo
With pillows of snow.

Its time for revival.

Oh Fools!
The pain, the unheeded advice-
Oh Feste, oh gravediggers, oh Fools!

Hiding behind the garb of jesters,
I hear your truth.
I know the fate sleeping in the riddle.

Alas! Poor Yourick knows it well.
For that which lives must die,
And that which dies has no tongue,
No verbage to warn.

Whilst the kings laugh
At morbid jokes,
The Fool sheds a tear,
For behind all good jests
Is a terrible truth.

I stare at the brown ocean
Contained in a translucent cylinder.
White pebbles, the sugar coating bottom

Sweat drips down from the umbrella cap
Sitting out on my desk for hours.
A puddle forms, the ring of time.

I stare longingly at the
Beach towel colored straw
Orange-like the sun
With white stripes

The wing tipped tongue of the saleswoman
Flutters on about numbers
And percentages.

Those numbers, and doodles,
And my face
Reflect in the cylinder.

Bold black letters
are written on the side,
F/V 3C 3S.

Here's to the untouched,
the naysayer virgins,
the believers, dreamers and bright eye beamers.

The poets with clouds in their shoes
Walking on gusts of autumn airs.
Humming the tune of a new idea
And sparking the wick of inspiration.

Here's to the inventors,
the birthers of thought
the can dos, will dos and get er dones

Brains in their pencils, cascading onto the page,
Blueprints blotting out
Black splotches in their lives.

Heres to the musicians,
The beat makers,
The Chance takers, love makers and feeling creators

Chanting the tune of tolerance,
Singing the ugly untouched image
Composing the stuff of life.

Heres to the artists,
The men and women
Still starry eyed with wonder,
The backbone of humanity.

Heres to you.

Unsure
Dangling upside down, held up by only trust
I am suspended over a bridge,
One of which I am afraid to cross,
afraid to think about,
afraid to imagine.
But you hold me there
suspended
laughing
I don’t know why I let you torture me
I know I’m going to fall
hard and fast
painfully
but it’s happening and I feel as if I have no control
I let it happen
and then you’re gone
years later I can’t forget
that bridge,
that night
that mistake and the long recovery.

but that’s the funny thing,
Hamlet could've killed the king.
You could have killed me,
Released your grip, sent me down.
Rushing, flying,crashing, crying
Your name on my breathless lips.

But...

You didn't. You held me,
Up.
Alive.

Still suspended, but no longer unsure,
We've met dangling above the water
On a bridge.

Your Ophelia, safe from drowning.
Safety assured.

Date someone who walks into a storm.
they may be pour at weathering it,
shoes soaked, shirts clinging to collar bones
jeans suctioned onto hips
But they'll make it through.

Date a person who gets caught in the rain.
They may not expect it,
but they can handle a surprise.

Love a person who isn't intimidated by thunder.
They know how to wait it out,
the heavy air will subside in the end.

Love a person who has experienced hail,
They may be bruised by it,
but they laugh at the ice pellets perching on their fingertips.

Marry someone who walks into the storm.
They like the excitement,
but they know when to come home.

Mary someone who walks into the storm,
They'll thrive in the abandoned streets,
walking barefoot through the puddles,
dancing to the beat of your heart.

I'm not.

My Dad thinks I should
be out burning bras
showing off unshaved legs
parading through the streets "like the gays."

I do not.

I remember talking in highscool
about my imaginary rich husband,
and never working again.

                                                My Dad does not.

He remembers panicking in hischool
telling me not to be a cheerleader
asking "why can't girls play on he football team?"

                                  My Dad does not realize,

I don't want to burn my
Victoria's Secret push up bra,
I want to shave my legs.

My dad thinks
the only person who
can decide whether
or not
to keep a baby
is a woman.

I do not.

A baby-life
is created by a
man and a woman.

It should take a
man and a woman to decide.

                               My Dad does not realize it,

He thinks I am a product of
the patriarchy,
a victim to the crime.

but,

I don't want to
march down the streets of Boston,
****.

Because I know some women,
cry **** when its a lie.

I know some men,
who cant cry
for help,
because **** is a woman's issue.

                    My Dad does not realize it hurts,

because
I am not a feminist,
I am an equalist.

I believe in
mutual respect,
choice,
balance.

Stay at home moms
and
Stay at home dads.

   My dad does not realize it hurts the cause to be a "feminist"

My dad is a feminist,
I am not.

I'm tetering
on
the pinnacle of life

I'm teething on a good idea
and crying for a bad idea
to come along and change my mind.

I'm toying with people
and
begging them for the truth

I'm exploring
an
unsteady
path

Not quite the refined
fully for-
med
Varient of the child my mother knew
years ago.

It's a funny time in life
when we feverently search
for ourselves

In a toybox of
clowns
jokers
and
fools

When we begin to learn
nothing we've learned
is true.

When we are high
on the sea saw
growing out of
old clothes
and old ways

Soon to be low
on our
salaries
and self esteem.

What a fun game of life we play
moving the pieces
towards love
or tragedy.

Many ups
and many
downs
will come to us.

Just remeber what your mother told you...
the playground rules.

Whether it's type 1
Or type 2
Life is a bit more difficult for you.

A broken piece of the machine,
Blood sugar monitor supreme.
A cure for diabetes is the dream.

Eating healthy and exersizing,
Won't cure everything,
But scientists and doctors are waiting.

For the cure of a lifetime
One that gives a lifetime,
This year might be the right time.

Walking for awareness
Fundraising for a cure
We are DiaBeaters for sure!

We are not a fairy tale,
we will never be a fairy tale.

We are not Romeo and Juliet,
Troilus and Cressida
Cinderella and prince charming.

We are not a happy ending,
fairytale ending
perfect ending.

We are not the embodiment of
true love,
loose love,
new love.

But we are love,
our love.

I am not perfect,
I will never be perfect.
I’m not a princess
but sometimes you call me princess

and you are not a prince,
but I guess….
I would call you my prince.

I’ve come to realize
without Disney’s eyes
that

Drunk and throwing up,
I was there for you
sick and sniffling
I was there for you
stressed and upset I was there for you
through it all, and to it all I was there for you
and I will always be there for you.

Just like you
were there for me
last minute, late, losing your mind
still there for me.
feeling hurt, me making it worse,
still there for me.

We are not love,
we are not a fairy tale
but we are our own fairy tale.

One that might not have a happy ending wedding,
but one I’m proud to be a part of,
so until the end,
if we end,
I will close my eyes and
I won’t pretend.

Because my prince who is not a prince,
makes me happy.

And being his princess
is the biggest honor a non-Disney girl can get.

Does everyone remember their first drink?
It was probably pretty bitter right?
I remember mine, I was so excited.
It was like an adrenaline rush
I kept asking and asking and asking my parents for a sip
and finally I got it
and it was absolutely disgusting.

You know a first drink is never what you expect it to be.
You always think it's going to be delicious,
life changing even because you expect that
out of the blue you'll be able to
distinguish between good drinks and bad drinks.
That you'll suddenly make it a habit
and that you will be instantly cooler.

Love kind of works the same way alcohol does
the first one you think is going to be great.
and it usually isn't
(except for a few freaks of nature who get it right after one try)

Love, like alcohol, is one of those things you try to quit
and you never do.
Like after a long weekend in college you promise you will never touch alcohol again,
And after a bad break up you swear you'll never touch a member of the opposite *** again.
but you do.

It's the same thing.

Relationships like a first drink can leave you bitter.
It takes years to learn how to distignusih a bottle of top shelf alcohol
from the stuff you buy in a handle for eight dollars.

And it takes years and plenty of heartbreak to distinguish between the good people and the bad people.
The people you keep in your life and the ones who will burn you.


but eventually, we get it right.
Eventually we realize we can drink without making that scrunched up face,
we realize we can sip some cold beverage and enjoy it
and sometimes we realize
we've found that one person who
doesn't leave us bitter,
who we can be with forever.

That one person who doesn't burn us
the way alcohol burns your throat.

When you meet that person,
you need to hold on.
And that's what's happening here today.

So all I can say is....sip slowly and never be sober.






Love is like a good drink.
you know, the kind you buy special for the party
because all they’ll have is bud, and PBR.

It’s like the drink you carry around all night,
sipping it, to make sure it lasts.
The drink you proudly carry,
label out, for the world to see.

Love is like a good drink,
the kind that sits beside you
at the beer pong table.
Understanding that
you have to chug all those beers,
before you realize it’s that special drink you really want.

Before you realize you can love without
the cheap scratch ticket selling liquor store.
Before you realize it’s time for the good stuff.

Love is like a good drink,
the kind you sip, slow,
the kind you buy special for the party.
The kind you keep in your house,
displayed on a shelf.

Love is like a good drink,
when times get tough, it’s there
when things are good, it’s there
and when your world is crashing down,
when you think everyone hates you
it’s there.

My only advice, and my only wish
is that you
stay thirsty my friends.

I stepped out into a hurricane,
let the wind and rain
touch me, push me,
lead me and whip me.

I try to wash away the pain.
As I sink my feet into the mud,
I look to the sky,
to the Father
and take comfort
in the fact that He breaks things too.

It was part of His plan,
I lie.
I had to destroy you,
gnash my teeth and rip apart your soul,
point my finger and smite your innocent heart.

I left you empty,
unable, with all the languages of love,
to express the hurt, betrayal and shame.
That thing beating in your chest,
it's beat a constant reminder of me.

They way I beat your virtue out,
beat my body against yours,
beat the drum of life.

But even the greatest heroes have regrets.
Even David committed his sins.
I destroyed you,
so you could be reborn.

I stepped outside in a hurricane,
and let the wind and rain
hurt me.
But nothing can amount
to what I put you through.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I rolled up the window.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I locked my doors.

I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I drove right by,
I saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
thought “I have nothing to give.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people,
I diverted my eyes.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
but like most people, I can’t tell you
what His cardboard sign said.

I thought I saw a homeless man,
He held a piece of cardboard,
it said “need…” but I don’t know what.

I wonder, did He need,

Money
Work
Food
Love?
I saw a homeless man,
and I wonder
how long had it been since He showered?

I saw a homeless man,
and I can’t help but question
how long He’s been that way.
I saw a homeless man,
and I didn’t make a difference,
even though a bill burned my pocket.

I saw a homeless man,
and I realized,
I’m still a poor college student.

I saw a homeless man,
and He didn’t receive my sympathy,
I gave Him fear, distrust, and invisibility.
I saw a homeless man,
on the way home,
in my old truck.

I saw a homeless man
He found a backpack
and was given $100,000.

I saw a homeless man,
and thought maybe he’ll be lucky too,
but then I realized it takes someone like me
to make someone like Him
Lucky.
I know I will see the homeless man
again and again and again.
Maybe I’ll read His sign.

I know I will see the homeless man,
on my drive home in the evening,
I know I won’t change.
But, I wonder, who will?

I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
and like most people,
I did a few things,

Locked the door
Rolled up the window
Looked away
Kept driving.
I’m the girl who saw a homeless man,
with twenty dollars in her pocket,
and I didn’t help one bit.

It’s fresh I thought,
Too red to be old.
Someday it will fade,
soon maybe.
It will turn pink.
I try not to stare but,
it’s as if some invisible magnetic force
is pulling my eyes towards it.
Does he know I’m staring?
It makes me uncomfortable,
I slowly sit down.
look into my tea, at the wall behind him
look at my hands.
“how was your day?” he asks.
He has no idea I see it.
I start to shake.
I know what he did,
what he’s been doing.
How do I ask?
Do we get help now?
It’s not healthy I think,
to just ignore the problem.
“It was fine.” I say
The lipstick perched on his collar.
The same way his hands were perched on her *******,
Maybe only an hour ago.
All I see is red.
Someday it will fade,
a mere smudge.
Nobody else will see it,
But I know, like a scar,
the mark will always remain.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse?
Full dedication, my vindication.
It purposefully maintained his great farce,
Masterfully lying, the persuasion.

He was always gorged full of his own ****.
I was willful and weak and victimized.
Beautiful deceiving eyes, I admit,
I was full of love, by him, mesmerized.

I became fully his, ****** into life
with a perjurer, oh he was skilful!
My heart was full with love, my head, strife.
The endless lies would stop, I was hopeful.

  But hopefulness can become helplessness
  with hearts, things become frightfully hellish.

You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

I can’t try to pretend,
that their faces are familiar.

three faces,
of seven.

One is pouting, almost frowning,
that’s me.

I have not altered,
I still hate birthdays.

I changed only in looks,
and vocabulary.

Stagnant.

Amanda, the second,
as close as a sister.

Three years older,
hands on hips.

She craved a career,
the Air Force.

Her goal was good grades,
and stability.

She had everything she needed,
to join the military.

He arrived,
not a boyfriend.  

Pregnant.

The final face,
one of Joy.

He lived eighty five years,
and I cried at the end.

His harmonica, buried with him,
his last sounds were words.

“Tell the girls I love them”
he said on the hospital phone.

Dead.

You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.

What you do recognize,
causes pain.

I don’t recommend looking,
unless you’re a *******.

When are you leaving?

The smoke from the cigarette
hugs me
I stare in wonder at something I’ve seen so many times
the white trails in the darkness
everything fades

Soon.

The smell will never
dissipate
I begin to wonder
Why is it called a drag
You can smoke a cigarette
in less than 4 minutes
It’s not a *drag
it’s quick

Last call.

My cup is almost empty
Jack on the rocks
the ice drowns
it melts into the canvas
amber substance

I’m almost done.

One more sip
One last taste
the mesmerizing magical magnetic
amber substance
it holds friends together
while the supply is plenty
but what happens when it runs out

Better to smoke the last of that than waste it.

I am pulled back to the
fate stick between my shaky fingers
smoke teasing in and out
deep breath
quick inhale
extinguished

One large swoop
grabbing liver waylayer
laywayer
swig
sip
empty

The bar closed
the door closed


*goodbye.

poetry, is almost dead
it’s gasping for breath
reaching out ,tearing at the bottom of our pants
clinging to anyone it can
A  solider of culture
being dragged from the battlefield,
after an open fire attack
by generations and generations

Poetry,
words strung together with beautiful precision
feelings reveled
people laying naked
exposed
Bleeding on the stage, on the page,
on the bathroom walls at the Mall
On the subways, in the sand
even writing on their hands
trying to save

….
what’s dying

This is why we slam.
this is how we resurrect the language
energy emitting from our bones like electricity
catchy beats and in your face attitudes
give flesh to the skeletal body
of poetry

This is why we slam.
because Poe wasn’t tough enough
Keats is too old fashioned for us
and the philosophical words of Robert Frost are foreign to us.

Today he who is shunned for his talented tongue
mush break the mold,
ignore the sweet sonnet and the subtle hiku
that is
misunderstood
modern day delinquents
those too ignorant to recognize
an onslaught of alliteration
                or
a well placed metaphor
those who find poetry
a bore

This is why we slam.
let our strength ring out through our voices

This is why we slam.
we speak our truths
pick off the paint covering the ugly reality

This is why we slam.
to be heard.

When the traditional beauty of Owen, Wordsworth and Dickenson
Just won’t do
us slam poets hear the call
and we come through

This is why we slam.
To face the harsh reality that is society
to attack
the politics,
the racism
the injustices
of life itself

Fast words whizzing from our mouths
from our hearts
slamming the ****** silence
and complacency
that has become today’s reality

This is why we slam.
To be heard,
to resurrect the dying art.

This is why we slam.

People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.

I look out my left window,
Zero.

I glance out my right window,
Zero.

The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.

We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.

In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?

There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.

Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.


The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.

In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells

People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.

Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.

No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.

My boyfriend does not say he loves me.
“I love you” is reserved for family members only,
and even then, sometimes, it’s a boldfaced lie.
My father “loved” my mother,
he cheated on her, drank away her money
and,
he abandoned me.
Another victim of his so called love.
I don’t even know what “love” means.
Somehow there is a supposed difference
between
Love
and
in love.

I don’t see it.
I love you, should mean
I love you.
Period.
But it doesn’t, does it?
We can’t even rightfully define the word love,
so how can it mean something?

No, my boyfriend doesn’t say
I love you
instead he swears he adores me.
Adores.
Me.
Now that word has meaning,
it isn’t common.
It’s unique to us.


It means he respects me,
he likes my quirky smile.
The way I walk, talk, and sing.
He likes the way I fight
the way I dance
the way I like to read in the dark.

My boyfriend also doesn’t call me
honey, sweetie pie, cupcake or worst of all,
love muffin.
I am not a pie, cupcake, muffin or honey…
although I do like all of those things….
a lot.

He calls me by my name,
and there’s something special about that too.
My name, the thing that is constant.
All of my accomplishments are wrapped up in that one word.
I own it.

Tying my shoes for the first time,
riding a bike,
driving,
graduating,
acing that test I studied all night for.
It’s all there
in my name.
Honey, sweetie pie, cupcake and worst of all love muffin
don’t hold any meaning.
It’s what a guy calls a cute girl.
great.
That’s so original.


My name carries all of my accomplishments,
and my failures.
The first time I fell off my bike,
and my best friend had to walk me home.
The first time I got into a car accident,
and the airbag bruised my face.
The time, my ex boyfriend said he loved me,
only to cheat on me and have his mother call.

“Hey sweetie, I’m sorry I just don’t think you guys are in love
and as you know he’s already moving on.”
I guess even though I “loved” him,
I lost him.
So no,
my boyfriend does not say he “loves” me.

And the next time a boy-
because he will be a boy
calls after you
“Hey sweetie pie”
“Hey Honey”
“Hey cupcake”
or worst of all
“Hey love muffin”

Tell him you don’t have time to talk,
you’re looking for the man,
who will adore you,
and learn your name
in all its glory.

Caaaarpe
…
*caaarpe
...
Caarpe Diem

Keating whispered
He whispered.

in Delay there lies no plenty
Shakespeare warned,

gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Herrick advised.

We don’t
whisper, warn or advise

Generation Y
PROCLAIMS!

We shout, strong, sure and proud
YOLO

We chant, graffiti, hastag
YOLO

We get
one shot one opportunity
to seize everything in we ever wanted in one moment

**** the romantics,.
The critics, the experts, the analyzers too.

YOLO
Who says we can’t be prophetic,
Philosophical,
Beautiful?


This is us,
Our time
our chance,
so

let’s make the most of the night like we’re gunna die young.

It is our excuse.

The reason I hit the gas
rev the engine and slam it to the floor.
With squealing tires,
loud exhausts and smoky exits
You can hear me
we are young so lets set the world on fire we can burn brighter than the sun.

We need to do this now,
before the light in our eyes,
light of our lives,
go out.

YOLO

The reason we face mountains
of debt with a smile.

The face we put on
brave, ready, awake
when the bill collectors call,
the healthcare goes into reform
and the government shuts down.

YOLO

This moment, we own it
this second in a catalogue
of years.
The months we spend crashing cars, bars and acting like stars.

YOLO

The reason we apply for jobs,
we’ll never get.
Taking rejection with a grin
we will always try again.

YOLO

it is the reason I joined the race.
After all,

You.
Only.
Live.
Once.

-Kayla Morrison

Timeis running short,
infinity is nearing it's end,
and ours.
The wax has spilled over
onto the table.
The candle is flickering,
gasping for air,
clinging fruitlessly
to a fleeting life.
The wick, the timeline of our love
is burning down to nothing
soon extinguished.

Who are you?
Why do you haunt even my dreams,
penetrating my most personal momens?
My heart races because of you,
mind runs wild,
I accuse, abuse and lose
myself.
How is it that I am held
by an unexplicable fear
parlyzed, cold and alone
When your near, yet
you lend open and guiding hands
Gently lulling me
into a state of blistful insanity

My love
rains down
making puddles of feeling
at your feet
surrounding you
undisturbed
preserved
the subtle stillness
is beautiful
until….
your words stomp on my
love
splash and trudge
through
each fragile puddle
they splash and dry up
lost
for all time
my love does not rain
for eternity
abuse it
and it will evaporate
forever.