On the evening of my sixteenth birthday
I remember curling my hair with an iron and
burning the tips of my fingers pink,
mumbling pained words under my breath
that I probably shouldn’t ever repeat
unless I desire to live beneath the shadows
of adult eyebrows being raised so high
they might never come back down

as if they had never said something like that
before

that night I put on a silver dress,
and lipstick so red it almost gave the illusion
that I had been bleeding from the mouth
but I felt unstoppable, so why not?

“why not” was the question
that was always replaced with stone-cold silence
and the shrug of a shoulder
instead of an answer

that night, I blew out sixteen flaming candles
and felt beautiful,
surrounded by the smiles of friends I had met in high school
and ones I had known since the days when our only worries
revolved around who had the prettier Barbie doll
and who held hands during recess in the fourth grade
and these thoughts caused my stomach to somersault because,
now that we were illuminated by candlelight and the brightness of celebration,
everything had changed.


I blew out my candles and did not wish
for a car, or a new wardrobe, or for more
faces to call my friends, but rather,

I wished to be taken seriously.

I knew there was a deep-rooted problem
when I became acquainted with real love for the first time
And everyone said that I was too young, too incompetent to understand
What that word even meant,
That I was silly for believing that such a concept could exist
When you’re sixteen and five and a half feet tall
and not that great at chemistry or parallel parking
and can barely even hold up a strapless dress
as if somehow that dictated
that I was too small, too stupid to realize that
love was something much bigger than I am
but I did.
I do.

And there is something so contagiously twisted
That lurks in our society like a epidemic
The idea when your age lies between thirteen and eighteen
you are not really a person
that instead, you are a shadow of ignorance that sleeps all day
and clothes yourself in different shades of apathy
and that the only things you care about are
alcohol-induced parties on Friday nights and
losing morals and hours of sleep while gaining temporary highs
as if that is the highest I will ever go in life

you have to be kidding me.

because you might look at someone like me
and snarkily remark that I never look up from the screen of my phone
and you might think that my taste in music is repulsive or that
I’m only holding his hand because I love the thrill of letting it go,
and you might think that people my age have brains
that contain only a spoonful of intellect and the rest is just
empty space filled up with disease
but maybe it is time that your pedestal falls
and you realize that the older the wiser
is hardly ever true at all

I have witnessed lives spiraling out of control

the truth is not that we are dirt
and no, I am not taking pictures of myself unclothed
or chatting with strangers in online rooms
maybe the reason why I’m on my phone
is because I’m talking my best friend out of killing herself
and I’m researching time travel and why the happiest people hurt the most
and a cure for my own depression
and better words to fit my poetry
I am not equal to the garbage you see kicked to the curb of the street
Or scenery while you ride on by in your horse and carriage

I am just as great
As someone who has spent 80 years of their life achieving
And if time is uncontrollable
Then why am I being treated like somehow,
I have not chosen to be here long enough to know anything at all

And one day I dream of having my words praised for the truth that they are
Rather than having eyes roll back in guilty judgment
Because I have not lived as long as you have
And yet I am the one writing the words

Because yes, I am sixteen.
I haven’t even been here for two decades
but I do not search for happiness in empty glass bottles and clouds of smoke like you think I do
and I do not play with hearts like they’re made of matches
because I know that they burn
and when I tell him that I love him
I am not doing it to **** time
and I know that life is sacred and
impossible to retrieve once it’s gone and I am not going to waste
the precious seconds of my own aching until someone decides
that maybe, I am worth listening to.

Because I know that I am.
And on my sixteenth birthday,
as I smiled scarlet in every photograph
I was right--
I am unstoppable.

I do not wish to be
an emerald, pressed firmly against
the flesh of someone else's finger,
to be marveled upon by eyes
that only see beauty disguised beneath layers
of self-inflicted ignorance.
I do not wish for a life
sitting gracefully upon its pedestal,
or a striking face behind a glass display
that has never tasted the sweat
of reality.
I refuse to pass days behind
white picket fences trapping me
from seeking out scarlet horizons
or to live by the shout
of a clock that is running out of words
to tell me that I mean
nothing.
I am not going to sit, confined within
the peeling floral paper
that embraces the same walls that suffocate me
nor will I let my heart sleep
within the cavern walls of a chest
that is starving to set it free.

I want to crawl towards comfort
with scraped knees that do not bleed apologies
and earth trapped underneath my fingernails
like a joke no one ever broke silence to laugh at
I want to harvest gratification
with these same hands that have taught themselves
how to let go of the ones
who have tried to set it on a silver plate
for me to eat.

I desire to be dizzy
on the last day I will ever grace the air
with my breath,
blinded by joy I had spent a lifetime pursuing
with shadows cast beneath these hungry eyes
that have realized--

that it takes a revolution
to be able to say that I did more
than just exist,
I conquered.

In silent sorrow the willow weeps
Upon the thirsty ground
A rumble of thunder, Zeus starts to speak
The Earth drinks up the sound

She tilts her head up to the sky
A gentle caress of cheek
The sky splits open; a battle-cry
No more tears left to keep

Angelic sighs descend from above
Silver droplets from the heavens
They whisper and tell me of holy love
Of the Rose and the Dove

The rest seek not the storm’s embrace
But to the sky will I chase
To drown in cloud is my joy
Away from filthy human ploy

Leaves soar on wings of wind
Exultant as the bird
It whistles a song; a sweet violin
By mortals yet unheard

He paints a layer of hurricane grey
Above the spring-bud green
Wide brushstrokes of smoky display
An emptiness unseen

*Under the sky, and over the ground,
Silently, peacefully crawling, not making a sound
The children of the storm
The faery mists that hide my form
Reveal my heart, my soul
And allow my spirit to frolick as a blithe foal

I grew up in a tough neighborhood,
Seen and experienced every kind of
Street hell you can think of.
Its no secret I was a drug addict,
I beat that.
Its no secret my mother was shot dead
In front of me.
I beat that.
All who know me,
Well, you all may not like me after
I told you I was dead.
I beat that.
So for those who are fighting,
Those who are bullying,
I send an open invitation to bully me.
To hate me, to write bad stuff
About The Dedpoet.
Leave all those other guys alone.
I can be your punching bag.
Because I can take it,
Because after all,
If we met in the streets I would
Hug you with a haiku,
I'd lay kisses on your cheek
With a thousand sonnets from
Neruda.
I'd read you Octavio Paz
Until you realized you are not a poet.
Poets do not bully,
They understand, they are philosophical
Word artists whom write the human
Condition and deal with the chaos
Of this world with peers.
So bully, so whomever you are,
Attack me, someone who knows
What you really are.
I can take it,
Just leave the real poets be,
This is an open invitation.
Let the fun begin, if you have the
Metaphorical ***** for it.

Two days. 
Two days drowning in the cacophonous silence of chaos
Burrowing deep into my waterlogged bones two
Nights kept alive by remnants of a forgotten time, 
Foggy after-images of thunderstorms and 
Learning to dance in the exuberant rain;
An under-developed photo.
Colours, that what you were. Chasing clashing carnival 
Colours. 

Two days. 
Two days burning alive. 
One day I'll turn to ashes, I swear.
These flames burn blue,
They burn with heat of missing you;
Grim golden, sorry scarlet
Do you miss me too? I try 
Not to think (I do) but you slither inside my
Mind like tongues 
Don't you know I'll burn you
Too?

Baby girl,
Do you remember that sunset we spent on the cliff like lust-filled teenagers?
We were feather-light then, floating to wherever the 
Wind blew us to. Wanderlust coated our skin a pearly white and there were
Nothing but sheets between us; a shimmering
Faultline we dared not cross. 
(You probably forgot) 
The way my heart felt as you cradled it in your sleeve. 
In that moment I realised all I could ever be was stone 
Cold, heart sold 
You carved me a rose, I threw you a hose
Its my fault, 
I should've known all I ever did was water you down, 
Dim your spark.
Its my fault, 
Forgive me for letting you drown. 

Baby boy,
I want you to know this:
I'm sorry. 
I'm sorry for ever meeting you.
Sometimes I wonder, what were the chances?
Seven billion other souls to ignite,
But the Devil chose you.
I don't regret anything, the pain, the 
Charred black bond we used to share
Darling, you don't deserve hell like me.
No one deserves hell like me
Don't worry sweetie, they could never steal us,
Not the memories at least:
I've locked them away for another hour, another 
Time, another age to savour:
The son of Man and the Devil's daughter.
I was selfish, but please
Promise me one thing. 
Don't ever forget me, will you?
Not when the tides turn, not even 
when hell burns. *

So one more day passes agonizingly, then two
The seconds fall like honey, I can't bear to look at you
Day three, I'm taking a breath and gathering my courage
I watch as you approach me and my pumpkin carriage
Is that longing on your face or am I imagining things?
I'm not prepared for this-the room starts to spin
Three metres, two metres, one and oh ****. 
My mouth feels too dry, I'm going to be sick.

-An uncomfortable silence-

Hey.
Hey.
So, are we still--
Friends?
Yeah, friends.

The smile that he smiles has me held tongue-tied*
Well, at least it better than saying goodbye.

Oh, but does the mourning mother miss him so!
In the trailing yellows of sunset she sees him,
In the bed he used to dream in, now but a
pristine stain of blue against white, displaying the vague outline of
used-to-be times and the drool stain that she
couldn't wash off with tears
On the walls hung portraits of silence
(Was it just her or did the smile seem forced all of a sudden)
They stared with canvas eyes and
whispered footsteps that ran up and down and up screaming
Fly away butterfly, fly!
Fly, fly, fly!
And fly it did, crash-landing into a web of disaster--
Its black mistress spinning him round and round and round her
scarlet hourglass figure
Time lost its meaning that night,
Trapped in an endless labyrinth of dead-ends and
rubber bands he'd use to make constellations with
Imprisoned within the suffocating
Haze of thoughts, memories she didn't want to unlock
and smoke.
Smoke- slithering its way into the sky, smoke
coiling around its mangled metal corpse.
He was gone before the smoke had risen,
leaving her to sweep up the broken pieces of herself;
They bit savagely into her palms but the numbness:
It built a fortress of steel around her:
Impenetrable.