I choose this over sleep,
I’d choose it any day.

In bed with a laptop,
I am a willing insomniac.

Sitting in the dark,
listening to the rain pour,
and placing words in ways
that no one ever has before.

There’s something magic about it
especially at this hour of the night.

I am alone with me,
and I feel like I’m becoming
who I want to be,
very slowly.

I choose this over sleep,
I’d choose it any day.

In bed with a laptop,
I am a willing insomniac.

I wish I came with a remote control,
some way to patrol every thought
that spins through my head.

If only I had a way
to change the channel.
Surf through the memories,
skip the painful and the miserable,
dwell on whichever one
pleases me.

Maybe, if I had a mute button
on my brain,
I’d finally be able to sleep.

I've made a you 2.0
a new you
the you I dream about.
The you I want you to be
the you that wants me
a soft and pliant you
like clay
malleable
and I've made a new me, too,
a me that deserves you
the kind of you that deserves me.
I want you
and you want me
in this new
world I've made
out of insubstantial dreams
of me and you.

It hurts
to face the original you
the real you
because you 1.0
is the best you.
I never could
do justice to you.
I could never
dream you
the right way.
Beautiful you,
and the real me,
in this world of
unrequited dreams.

Real me and real you
might never be meant to be
no matter how much
I wish the dream world
to be true.

I want to disguise you
in a clever metaphor.
Maybe compare you
to a bullet
or a freight train
or some exotic animal.

I want to hide you on this page,
make you a mystery,
but there's too much of you in my head.

All I can think
when I think of you
is you,
exactly the way you are.

That stupid little sound
that you make in the back of your throat,
and your crooked teeth
and your crooked eyebrows.
Your face when you sing,
how happy you are,
with the windows rolled down
and your sleeves rolled up,
tapping out the beat
on the steering wheel.
Your musical hands.

I want to grab onto one,
grab it and hold on,
and I want to feel
your crooked teeth
on my lip.

I want to hide you away
on this page
but there's too much of you.

I used to miss you – your face, eyes, and brain,
Our almost future, our petit château.
I missed you, until you drove me insane.
You locked me up in a portfolio,
And you tried to preserve my memory.
You missed me, you missed me, beaucoup, beaucoup –
I was an essential accessory.
“I need you, I need you, oh vous, oh vous!”
“Don’t you leave me, do come back, s’il vous plaît!”
You clung and you stuck, you filled me with dread.
You wrote for me, in lackluster français.
You came from all sides, left nothing unsaid,
          Played my guilt like strings, your marionette,
          Still trying to fight this **** minuet.

That voyage,
on the Beagle,
I discovered a beginning
Such revolutionary splendor –
The origin of species!

But I begin to wonder,
where is the creator?
I have always found him
in the yawning mouth of the
awakening morning glory.
I find him in the visage
of my Emma, her features
blooming in the sunlight.

But I begin to wonder,
what of the ichneumon wasp,
the unholy, unwilling alliance
with the unfortunate caterpillar?
The horrors of nature?
Where now is this creator?

Surely, he exists.
Can I have a doubt of this?
His species, though,
is far more complex
than that of the
singing mocking bird;
his features less defined
than that of the lumbering tortoise.

Perhaps the detail
of his nature originated
in the mind of mankind.

I run through the crowd,
gasping,
grabbing,
pulling at hems,
trying to get someone's attention.

In my ears,
I scream,
but to the crowd
it is only a whisper.
Barely a glance
is cast my way.

I want someone to
notice the turmoil
underneath the
careful blank slate
of my face.

I want them to see
through the smile,
down, down, to the
quivering lip.

See the tears
I keep back
in my empty eyes,
the heart on the sleeve
that I crumple in my hand.

Waiting for someone to see
what I'm not showing.

Poetry is a poor lover.
It's never there for you
when you need it the most.
That intense moment
when you long to
etch your soul in ink,
poetry flees from you.

It always comes back,
though.
Late at night
in the twilight of
sleep and waking
(the witching hour),
it returns, nagging,
crying out for you

until you sigh,
until you flick on a
bedside lamp,
fumbling for a notebook
and an old pen
and whisper,

"Hello,
I've missed you."

Plato, Socrates, Aristotle.
Forms, idealism, transcendence.
I don't know what to make of it.
I just keep getting lost in my mind,
thinking of other things,
ignoring Anaxagoras.

Fellow students search for insight,
attempting to find inner depths,
pretending to be profound.

I wander out of my head-maze momentarily,
long enough to write a few things down,
a couple scribbles in my notebook,
until my brain draws me back in,
and I'm ignoring Anaximander.

Thinking of anything but Plato's Phaedo
while miming rapture, staring blankly
into the depths of the instructor's ginger beard,
ignoring the words that come out of his mouth.
Ignoring Anaximenes.

someone at the door
knock knock knock
try to keep my eyes straight ahead
do not let them roll away
when I spot the leather book in hand.

no thank you,
no thank you.

but, but, but
just in case
here's a card
have a pamphlet
date time number

no really,
no thank you.

are you sure
sure sure sure?

yes, thank you,
I'm sure.

ma'am do you believe in god
have you accepted jesus in your heart?

no, I do not.
no, I reject him
with all my heart.
please go.

oh.
I see.
okay ma'am
thank you for your time.
I'll pray for you.

(do not look at me
like that,
with your god's judgment
in your eyes.
this is my house,
my door,
my porch.
you are the intruder.
this is not my fault.)

This library is
hushed and quiet.

But that
is nothing special.
Nearly all libraries
are hushed and quiet;
they all seem to be
redundant in this way.
All are quiet.

Unless they are
children's libraries
because, for whatever
reason, children seldom
know how to whisper.
Or read, for that matter.

But this isn't a
children's library
It is too quiet
And if this were
a children's library,
I wouldn't be here.

But here I sit,
at this faux-wood table
and put headphones
into my ears
and play some Sinatra
to block out the roar
of the hush and quiet.

I pretend to be studious
Because this is a student's library
And studiousness seems
to be a common costume
here.

Heads bent over books
And eyes bent under tables
to see the fingers
bent around phones.
Heads bent together
Mouths bending words.

Hushed and quiet.

I put my pen to paper,
Trying,
over and over,
to express events
and their effects.
And I try to believe
that these words
trickling down my wrist
have some sort of value
or purpose.

Maybe it's just vanity
to think that my thoughts
are worth something,
that they mean
anything
to the world outside
my mind.
But I try,
over and over,
to make this
hollow space
in my chest,
and this growing pain
in my head,
coherent.

Relate experience
through stanzas
and enjambment,
or a poorly
thought-out
metaphor.

I write it
and leave it.

My soul onto a page
in purple pen
in a library
surrounded by people
who have no idea
of my name.

This pieceofshit
I call a poem
that I write
and leave
and never want
anyone to read.
Because what is the
point?

These are just words
about a person
who you don't know.

What's the
point?

I don't pretend to know.

And yet the pen meets paper.
Again
and
again.

I see what you're saying.
Kind words on a screen.
I smile for a moment,
wanting to believe.
But then Doubt launches its attack,
with weapons of uncertainty and self-loathing.
How could you mean what you say?
It's probably not true.
It's probably a ruse
meant to placate me,
so I'll go away.
I don't want to think this way.
I want to believe,
but hope could destroy me.
So I wait for you to leave,
to forget about me.
You say you mean it.
Complimentary.
I try to believe it.
Uncontrollably,
the fears kick in.
Really? Really? Really?
Don't ask.
Don't.
Don't.
Stay cool, keep calm.
Stop being such a **** up.

I can't.

A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl

I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.

A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair

And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.

Numbing monotony
blurs through each day.
I try to glide along,
past every dull moment
unscathed
and uninterrupted.
Let nothing break through
the haze of boredom
and loneliness.

Cracks and speed bumps
ruin my plans
of a smooth path,
until I nearly jolt
to a jarring stop.
I attempt to continue
sluggishly drag my body
try to march ahead
enter the fog
avoid the obstacles.
Head high,
back straight,
eyes forward,
perceive as little as possible.

But creeping tendrils
of smoke and pain
pull me down
into thick darkness.

And I never stop fighting
my way out,
only to fall back in.

a young girl
without a face
and without a name
means very little to this world;
this world that is obsessed
with faces and names,
appearances and labels.
anyone,
any girl,
who wants to be
someone
in this world
has to build a new face
out of plaster and paint
remodel and decorate
and has to create a new name
out of assumptions and stereotypes
bend and assimilate
because without a face
and without a name
you are nobody to this world.

but those girls without
faces and names,
without
painted stereotypes,
those of them
who don't want to be
something
to
this world,
but rather
someone
to
somebody,
don't need to become
anything,
except
for
themselves.

There is a mask,
I feel it fall.
Over me, over all.

There is a fog,
I feel it cling.
Choking me, everything.

Open my eyes,
Close my heart.
Under my guise,
I fall apart.

It darkens night,
Outshines the sun.
The mask can fight,
But the fog has won.

Sometimes you can't avoid
ruining a beautiful thing.
You have to take another step,
even if you crush a flower underfoot.
You tell yourself you have to do it,
but it feels wrong.
Destroying something so innocent,
leaving behind the tangled wreckage.
Wilted blossoms and broken stems.
You can't stand still,
waiting for the flower to move.
Tread as delicately as you can.
Hoping.
To leave some of the innocence
and purity behind, some of the life.
To not destroy it completely.


*"It feels wrong
to trample flowers."

J'ai honte.
I am ashamed.

This guilt is all-consuming.
I don't know what I'm doing,
and I don't know
where this is going.
And whatever this feeling is,
it's growing,
swelling,
until I'm bursting.
Wanting
          to scream
          to cry
          to hide.
until this all goes away.
Far,
     far,
         away.

But it's not just going to disappear.
It* has nowhere to go.
I can't run away,
it will only follow.
This doesn't just concern me,
it affects the hearts I've borrowed.
And it opens up this emptiness,
like my own heart is hollowed.
I would that it were.
It's too full, pressure building,
the thoughts are pressing,
leaving hard impressions
on the insides of my skull.
Until it becomes too much,
and the secret that I've kept concealed
spills forth,
leaving me broken
and exhausted.
Drained.

I am hidden.
Hiding, lurking
Deep in the darkest corner,
the saddest, weakest crevice
of your mind.
Spreading -- sickening the rest.
You're fully aware that I'm there --
I don't hide from you.
I'm too busy torturing you,
day after day.
Shifting doubt and fear
onto the simplest sentence,
the kindest comment.
Poking, prodding,
supplying crippling explanations.
Disabling you,
turning any self-esteem you could have had
into a mess, a catastrophe,
a disaster of a girl.
No,
I couldn't hide from you.

I hide from anyone else.
You try to reach out for help,
but I pull you back.
You try to explain how I work,
but I steal the words
out of your mouth.
You can't explain,
and I make sure that you don't want to,
                                                                 not really.
Because what would they think?
No one wants to know,
No one wants to have your diseased thoughts
dumped on them,
Hold it back,
Keep it in.
Keep me in.

Let me fester, infect,
every feeling.
I decay, rot.
Scarring.

Good luck getting rid of me.

It seems as though
I can only write
whilst in the possession
of angst and fright.
I weep and moan,
fret and fidget...
The words come so easily.
Rhyming schemes,
haunting themes.
My byproducts of wounds
and worries.

However, currently,
no such struggles writhe within,
tricking
        and torturing
                         my mind.

Hence, here cometh
my semi-decent work.
Pathetic ploys, amorphous attempts.
Flagrant failures, endless endeavors.

I am hated
I am feared
because to no god
am I adhered

I can love,
and I can feel.
I'm not that different.
So what's the deal?

Your parents' ideals
at a young age,
forced upon you.
Where is your rage?

Your teenage spirit,
our "open" generation.
How can you stand
the segregation?

Unique identity?
You don't mind.
But in this way I differ?
Oh, the problems you find.

We boast of equality,
Freedom of speech.
But in the justice of our nation,
I've found a breach.

In our lovely America,
we don't discriminate.
But take a small survey -
It's atheists we hate:

Our ungodly ways
Our acceptance of others
Our selfish lives
Our care for our brothers

The First Amendment:
Secularism’s a must.
Now look at our money:
"In god we trust"?

But tell me now -
of which god do you speak?
Thor, Zeus, Allah?
Which god should I seek?

And tell me now! -
Why seek any?
You want me to choose?
There are so many.

And logically it follows
that no god is right.
Even if you believe in one,
try to see the light.

Think of the hundreds
of gods you suppress
There's no reasoning to it,
I must confess.

You fling feeble fights
Filled with hate
Don't try to change me,
it's too late.

I'm on my path,
so I'll keep walking
You can come too,
if you just stop talking.

You preach and you shout
I know your belief.
If you believe, I don't care
If you don't, sweet relief.

You call me close-minded
But just listen to me;
I've tried and you haven't
You've never tried to see.

I've listened for hours
I've tried to think what you think
And if I tell you what I believe
You disregard me without a blink

Now take a moment here,
just a short pause,
to realize what I say
Let it sink in its claws.

I know both sides
I've chosen my own
You know one side
What has that shown?

It's not that hard
to get informed.
But it's much easier
to say conformed.

If you knew both sides,
you might change your mind.
Is that why I'm scary?
Would you rather stay blind?

This is all we have
Does that cause dismay?
Use your life wisely
don't use it to pray

"Be grateful for what you have"
Cherish this life
Cherish our world,
it's not a cause for strife

You've been given so much,
but not by your "Lord"
Accept what it is
and put down your sword

Let go of your anger
Why do you fight?
Why can’t you see
that our future is bright?

Be who you are,
never fear retribution.
Being true to myself
is my own contribution

I am unimportant and small
I know this quite well.
You can know too,
You won't be sent to hell

Our own earth
is where we laugh and love
Live - don't waste your life waiting
for the nothing above.

This is all your time,
your time to feel.
So make it count.
And make it real.