i test my surroundings
casually sliding my hands across things i might like
i feel sick when i don't know
what i want

i like listening to other people
with my eyes
trying to figure out
what makes their pupils widen
and if they know what its like
to be stuck
in a vortex of thought

things like
not going outside
and always being alone
should be crimes
and i'm a terrible offender

it messes with your mind
you end up thinking too much
because there's nothing new
to interest your endless flood
of creative juice
i'm a noiseless blender

getting stuck in your head
is a terrible place
to be
the mind is a very large
but cluttered space
full of yesterday echos
and quiet heartaches
waiting to pounce

i'm really good at
creating my own personal hell
i need to learn
to close my mental door
in the faces
of my fears

i am not a person of many things
i have only a small family
one brother
i spend my days
using the same few things
over and over
i haven't many followers on social media
or in real life
my grades are fine
though i have not as many points as you

but i have sung thousands of lines, verses
i have birthed hundreds of poems and stories
some not written down
but they have still existed in my mind
and in that space between
spoken and unspoken
the pen
drips gold into my soul
whether real or metaphorical


i am wealthy in my ways

some may think me a pessimist
even i begin to think so some days
but then there are things like lentil soup
tastes like mama's dinner bell laughs
and yesterdays that have lost their prowl
and it's also healthy?
a thing with no flaws
seems too good to be true
but it is true, it is.

i want you to
sing the words 'i love you'
but pant the words 'i want you'

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and the raindrops roll down the pane
and the breath fogs up the place
where a hand lay
when the mind was transfixed
on headstones and graves

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and the eyes are dry caves
and a sailor's knot sits in the stomach
with no one to untie it
but just like milk
emotions have an expiration date

we walk through days
telling ourselves
that no one will accept us
and people are driving cars
and picking the last donut from the box
while someone is in a bathroom stall
hand and heart gripping tight
on something sharp

i'd like to say that poetry could be my profession
but that would be like saying
that spewing my emotions and dark thoughts
across the shelves of a bookstore
is a profession.
i could never make someone clean that up.

(and still face them again)