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.

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.

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.

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.

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

**** this restricting world!
**** this corporate America!
Just kidding, we’re free

or

we’re told we are free
given a right to life liberty and property,
well originally,
but now we have the right to pursue happiness,
not to be happy, just to look for it,

But my search is over.
Who could ever be happy in this polluted world?
No polluted like the air,
polluted in the mind,
We are sick twisted carbon copies of what was once greatness

No room in the curriculum for questioning
MCAS MCAS MCAS
SAT SAT SAT
AP AP AP
these standardized tests **** originality  
****** questioning
Memorizing the test is blinding,
shutting out the good things in this still wondrous world,

you see me sitting quietly in my room,
My mind is screaming
you see me sitting calmly at my desk
I violently ****, and pull, and stretch the cage I’m in
taken captive by a so called reality

A reality in which money is the same as success
A reality where feeling is a sign of weakness,
and a reality in which fun is only for stupid children
when did this horror begin?

Money is meaningless just a piece of paper
feeling is NOT weakness it’s what reminds us we are human
and fun is something everyone needs sometimes

I was given hands, a mind, a mouth and legs
these are (from what I’m told) the tools required to rise above this reality
Yet this image, this illusion is stopping me
this illusion that my tools are inadequate broken

It’s like that favorite toy a young child has because
as I said fun is just for kids, by the way thanks for denying us Trix
anyways he’s at school all day
just waiting to play with it,
unable to think about anything else,
and he gets home and runs through his mom cooking in the kitchen
rushed up the stairs
almost trips but doesn’t
and he gets to his room picks up this fantastic toy and
it’s batteries are missing

This is like me

My hands have the ability to write,
to draft new ideas
beautify the world with diction and rhetoric
unify the world with strong words
that have positive connotation,
because I don’t want to pursue happiness
I’m a little greedy and it’s like this
if I have the right to live
and the right to liberty
than I am making **** sure that I am happy

My mind is a holy vessel
or it was before I let it be molded
before I betrayed the great thinkers that came before me
it should be home to morals and ethics,
yet it’s filled with lies
all my productive thoughts blocked
by the newest TV series on ABC and FOX

My mouth would be very useful
if my mind would help me think of something intelligent to say
oh I wish I didn’t betray
let them in day by day
infusing me with poisonous thoughts
thought of memorizing facts not understanding them
thoughts about questioning being the same as stupidity
thoughts lacking individuality

My legs should help me
stand up for what I believe in
Like Martin Luther King did
Like Fredrick Douglass did
Like The Framers, Rosa Parks, Abbie Hoffman
and Abraham Lincoln did
Stuff I would fight for
live, cry, and die for-
But I’m feeling crippled today

We’ve run out of Prophets Renegades and leaders

we are part of a generation too easily influenced and too quickly swayed
but what can I say? I am a victim just like you
and I’m curious as to what we need to do

I have-I’m not sure yes yes I think it’s an idea
and I might need you

Lets hold each other up
support our crippled legs with one another
lets question even when we’re told there’s no room
lets resurrect originality I mean after all
we have the right to life liberty and property,
well originally

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

the flowers are blooming again,
my dear little angel is dancing in them
her hair like a river flowing,
arms like a pinwheel spinning,

The sun emits rays again
my sweet baby is laying in them,
her skin so beautiful is sparkling,
her eyes so deep are closed

The seasons have changed again
and my love is happy
again.

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!

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 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.

Oh wasted talent, neglected excellence,
how you enter the light every day, always leaving a black abyss
full of attitude, and rude remarks, offensive words that sting
long after you’ve crept back into your world of tenebrous isolation
we feel the effects, like a wave of negativity

you position yourself south of everyone comfortably north
repelling love, and understanding, but you’re not lonely
No you’ve found the ultimate alternative,
An imitation reality, like McDonald’s food,
Never quite  able to equal greatness, nothing worth praise, almost a waste
A great façade, a fake

Your glossy eyes and lethargic mannerisms tell all
Higher than life, Psh you don’t need us!

But don’t you know? Weren’t you told?
There’s a better way to get high,
why not… … take a drag of the cigarette of friendship,
or a hit of creativity?
These things will far surpass the boundaries of ecstasy

But no,
you sit
and you sleep
senses dulled
eyes glued shut
you reside complacent in a prison to which only you hold the key!

Don’t you know the greatness you could be?
I do because I can see, past the cloudy eyes,
beyond the stinging comments,
I can see the successful well educated man you continually refuse to be.

It hurts and pains me every day getting up from my seat taking the world away,
and on the desk where you used to sit,
is a pile of class work and lessons, that you call *******.

stop now, before the poison penetrates too deep,
save the dying man,
the long list of what you could be
times are tough and temptation is hard to fight,
just remember that salvation is close and it is in sight,
Ask for help and you shall receive,
let in the light and shut out the fog,
not one inky hint should remain,
time is running low, and faith is hard to find….
just once, sincerely try to open your eyes,
take advantage of the time that you have left
because when this years over,
it will be time well spent.

Standing at the edge of uncertainty
at the threshold of our lives
we stare numbly down the hall of opportunity
As youths every door wide open
As young adults many are locked shut
closed.
Rooms never to be explored,
Yet as ederly members of society
they could all open again
after the one thing we all fear
An experience of which there is no return
it's odd how life works
So as children take advantage
of an and all opportunities
and as young adults try to hold open as many doors as you can
Don't let society or pressure slam shut
Love or hope or untraditional carreers
and as an ederly man or woman
always look forward
never back
as your doors will all re-open

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 all later
right now I’m
dangling upside down, held up only by trust
I am suspended over a bridge
unsure of what to do.

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.

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.

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.

Today,
I was shot down,
told I was too ugly to date the star of the football team.
But that’s okay,
I’ve had my eye on the geek.
But back to me.
Honesty, confidence and intelligence,
are these the qualities you all find so ugly?
Of is this concept of beauty within beyond your brain capacity?
I am proud of who I am and what I am
I will not change for you or you or you or ANYONE that calls me ugly,
My beauty is unique because unlike the prom queen, the homecoming qeen, Barbie and any other beautiful female figure….
no matter how old, how fat, how tall, how short I am
no matter how messy my hair, how runny my makeup
my beauty will not fade,
my beauty is of a different shade.
I am a rare find, one of plain honest normalcy
I am no super model, no cheerleader, no athlete in general,
I am not physically attractive,
and neither is that geek
that one you all make fun of,
the one who sits alone at lunch
the one with the disheveled look
the one I can not live without
The one lacking muscle, lacking an ego
just simply himself as I am simply myself
and as you should all
simply be yourselves
when you are you for you and only you
then you and everyone else can achieve a certain inner beauty
one that shines past the makup, that will run, the muscle that will turn to fat, and the ego that is so frail, and can rip open like a wound gushing false confidence at the sight of a challenger.
you with the attitude, you’re too ugly, you with the complex, you’re too ugly,
you consumed by your money you are all too ugly FOR ME and every one like me
for those above your twisted image of beauty.

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.

I am making a log pile
I choose a chainsaw carefully,
sixteen inch
I prime it,
push in three times
one
two
three
and pull
it roars and comes to life,
I find a tree,
dead and rotting,
poor thing
there is no time to think
so I start cutting
slice
slice
BOOM
it falls.
Next comes liming
small branches fly
time to log it
careful not to hit the ground
the chainsaws teeth chew through birch
it’s a clean dismemberment.
I stack the logs one by one,
building on what is already there
one on top of the other
sometimes they fall
and I have to rearrange
but I never give up
that log pile
isn’t a pile at all.

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.

"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.

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?

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.

Elusive love, why do you taunt me so?
Capturing me with your endless beauty
your arms grasp me, forcing me to follow,
not real arms, love is it’s own entity.

I want to turn away, end your cruel game,
but like the sun, I return everyday
with an ever burning passionate flame
my feelings for you can never be swayed.

I feel like trash floating in the ocean,
pulled in and pushed out by indifferent waves.
Your actions scream love, with no devotion
to another woman you are a slave.

I want to be her, I must have your love,
but into second place I am always  shoved.

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)

So my dear dear homework we must go our separate ways,
I was loyal all winter,
but I can no longer see you every night
and I cant bear wasting my time in this newly found sunlight
month after tedious month you’ve expected my full attention
week after week you demand that I “do you”
and that I “do you good”
even on my off nights, when I’m tired,
overwhelmed or stressed
you want it.
and so my dear dear homework this is why I must break this relationship off
it’s not healthy
you’re suffocating me
isolating me from my friends and family
and don’t start with the “they never liked me” line
because they said the opposite all the time.
Go back to living in my teachers desk drawer
if there’s even room there anymore.
Maybe I’ll think back on you some rainy spring day
but while the suns out and the grills cooking
I can’t stand to even see you today.

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.

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.

I wish I was a pretty girl,
I wish I was able to please you in bed,
I wish you loved me as her
a fairy princess
flowing gowns that sparkle and shine,
High heels, bracelets earrings of gold
maybe then you’d be sold.
Instead I am a warrior
broad shouldered, snarling, snorting, biting beast
I back down to no man,
I stand up at all challenges
fight every battle
I wish I was a pretty girl,
I wish I was your girl
In your arms every night
tucked in close
at your table every morning
bringing you eggs to eat and juice to drink
in your house every day
I wish I was a pretty girl
frail, leaning on you for constant support
but I am a determined ****
I am miles away, I am alone,
I have embarked on an adventure
far away from you,
missing you
wishing for you
unable to have you but in mind.
I wish a was a pretty girl
but I’m not and I refuse to be.

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.

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 *******.

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.

it's cold and I feel small
i'm alone and I feel abandoned
i'm me, but i've lost myself in your love
I hope you feel the same,
yet your feelings never shown
I am in constant turmoil
he loves me he loves me not
he loves me he loves me-
BOOM
my feelings explode inside me
I am hit with the shrapnel
Am I good enough?
Does you care as I do?
what will become of me and you?
he loves me he loves me not
he loves me he-
I can;t function like this can't think
I work to keep busy but I am constantly distracted
awaiting our next meeting,
next encounter
then left to my own devices I wonder
why it's so delayed
who you're with and what you're doing
how you're probably not thinking of me
It is against my morals to sit and wait
at home for you to come
for you to leave your job and see me
but I do it
It hurts to stay and it hurts to go
what will become of this, of us,
I dont think either one of us knows
but such are the trials of young love
and I suppose it's something to accept and embrace
but still I dread the heartache

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'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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.