If a poet ever tells you
Writing is easy
Writing is fun
If they say this to you
They are lying
Lying a ton
Being a poet
Isn't easy
This is hell
But writers have a place
To call home
To dwell
Where they live comfortably
Is a dark place
A dark cave
And the only ones who enter
Those who love
Those who are brave
Poets are deep creatures
Endless thoughts
Endless pain
If one lets you see inside
Don't injure
Don't be vain
Just quietly sit there
As their soul
Takes you as part
And absorb what you can
As their words
Come from the heart

The bathroom looks like a ****** scene
blood spotting the walls,
the floor,
the yellowing porcelain,
blood.

My brother calls me three times around midnight
I don't pick up
I'm off in la la land
chasing funny things
put to bed on the sofa
in my friends' dorm
too high to fall safely
drunk enough to take the risk

The bathroom is a ****** scene this morning
all of that blood once ran through veins
bringing oxygen to muscles and organs
keeping my brother ticking
and now it's turning the color of rust
on the bathroom floor

sharp lines work their  way
through my veins
run the labyrinth to my heart-
a spiky, futile, mercurial art.

where I dance in spirals unknown
pondering the number of steps down from my throne
crown of thorns, I'd never wear
rather, I dare Delilah to cut my hair.

plucked at the web, spoke you your lies
Atruistic voice, the most formidable disguise
my chameleon dance done, Exit Stage Left,
Dear little Psyche, still on the run.

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—
  Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—
  Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet—
  Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
    Spring, the sweet Spring!

Your paintbrush all powerful your canvas mighty
On your palette countless colors of endless variety
You make them whole or cut into slice
Add salt or sugar, sea or mountain spice
Can cook it delicious or brew darkly bitter pill
Make or break hearts at your sweet will
Can weave a journey spinning hidden tales
Reach dream’s oasis fly on wind’s sails
Go on turbulent ride or sing a lullaby
Show where it hurts find too a remedy
Can cause eyes to rain give flesh a goosebump
Part the lips wide or bring the throat a lump!

Why- I’ve been thinking a lot lately
a surprising notion for someone as vapid as I am, I know
but the sentiment still remains
thought- it has been happening
and I’ve come to the grand conclusion
I make a horrible poet
no teenage angst, no head over heel love
a surprising lack of passion for a girl my age
sixteen is supposed to be my prime emotional state
so why do I feel so empty
Imagine your excitement- Easter Morning- 2006
basket brimming with gelatinous ooze and future cavities
when you see it there
cradled in between the silky green plastic strings
Mega Jumbo Chocolate Easter Bunny
your little heart beats faster, faster, faster
until you take a bite
and dread is the only thing that takes place
of that once so familiar savory sweetness
hollow- the bunny is hollow
It’s nothing more than a disappointment really
to look up at the stars and just see stars
to smell the crisp turning of autumn in the air
to watch the inch worm dance despite the distance
to wonder upon the cute boy across the room
and feel nothing
Maybe I’m thinking too much
Maybe I’m just repressing that deep down hatred of myself
that society seems so keen on me having
Maybe I don’t want to be a poet
Maybe I want to be a poem
Yes, I want to be a poem
dripping in catharsis
melting to the very point of emotional vulnerability
tearing away the mask you hide behind
yes, I want to be that metaphorical nonsense you call art
I want to be the words you bravely hide behind
to tell your story like no other medium can
I want to feel the daggers in my sides
and I want to fly to the moon
I want to be emotion
I want to be real
I want to be a poem
but that’s just a little too nonsensical, isn’t it?
dream big, stay small, hope’s how you grow them all
but hope isn’t happiness, is it?
hope isn’t real, is it?
hope is a vapid emotion
perfect for a girl like me