when I was in the fifth grade
we were told to put our names on notecards
and to pass them around the class
so that each student could write
one nice word
about each of us in turn
and I had a crush on a boy
and I wrote "nice" on his notecard
and he wrote on my notecard
"mediocre"
and to this day my heart doesn't know
if it is more in awe that he knew such a word
or if it is offended and crushed
and five kinds of hurt
and boys are dumb anyway
and I constantly wonder
how mediocre I am

ah, didn't you know..
powerful imagery better weaves itself
through a simplistic tale of truth
rather than in some poem boasting
                  grandiosity
you know, full of Harvard-taught words
      and, quite honestly, empty
            
                                                    meanings

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return.
I am tired of internal, trenching,
desperate calls
for pen and paper.
I am tired of empty pages,
and pens being put down.
I am tired of the fragmentary
*******-business I have with my declaration of expression.
I want to write about rough ****** efforts
and soft
aching feelings.
I want to write about Coca Cola freezies
(because they don’t even exist, why?).
I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work,
admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it.
I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19,
And sob.

Senseless beauty,

Indulge every chance you get.
In that galactic heart of yours,
Where stars are dense as wild flowers
Covering the dark ranges of space.
Where the greatest lessons are distilled
In your subtle flavours and delicate
complexities of your new sensorium.
Eat your guilt, and do not look at your tortured mate.

*The lesson is pleasure not pride.

My stomach aches.
It's been quite a while since my stomach ached
and I knew, something was wrong
with me.
Demons dangling.
soul shivering.
heart breaking.
life crushing.
I didn't know what happened to me
back then,
and just roughly do I know it
now.

I used her, when I first met her
like a doll, like a puppet
a toy for pleasure, a plaything for my lust.
Later on I
adored her,
protected her,
trusted her,
loved her,
but I never said 'I love you',
till it was too late.
It was a sunny day
when you backstabbed me.

Sis say I've changed now,
but I am still the same man;
I just learned to understand valuing what I have
and not giving it away
carelessly.
Shame you, shame your decision
shame me, shame my tolerance
shame him, shame his sadism
shame you all and your egoism.
Lost my love, lost my job, lost myself
I'm trying to make better,
to grow,
fighting the enemy hidden
within us.

Stuck inside a dark room
I'm dying for a breath of air
I'm not letting myself out

I want everyone to know my secrets
yet I can't open my mouth

when they look inside my eyes i want them to feel my pain
yet I avert my gaze to the ground

I want to stand up to all my demons
yet I don't have the strength to get out of this haze