trying to find the right words,
words that mask or conceal,
my mind immediately flashes to
an aspect of life that little can be revealed.

green leaves, peekaboo rays of light
through the shade of an old oak tree,
such things are familiar,
easily relatable, and bare nothing about me.

i don’t want the world knowing,
what goes on in my head, so
i’ll write about nature
when I’m forced to pick up a pen.

but someday, i want to share myself with someone,
let them know the inner workings of my head.
but right now, i’m not ready,
i share scenes of nature instead.

and i’ll continue to write about the birds hopping along sidewalks
and squirrels dancing among the brush,
until i can open up to others,

do away with my hush.

I’ve wasted all my money on ****.
again.
I don’t even like it, the stench, the habit, the headaches,
the fake smiles, declarations of “I’m so high”, I’m done.
I’m done splattering my guts in the morning
displaying my vulnerabilities to the world,
the world of 275 girls. I just can’t seem to find
the acceptance I want,
but don’t deserve. what I need is a pill to forget
who I am and what I’ve done, because I haven’t done enough.
**** kids my age travel to Tajikistan, hack government websites,
cure complex diseases in their sleep.
I just lay on my futon, plop dvds into my Mac,
and waste my life away.
another day wasted, staring into a screen. which reminds me
I also waste too much money on dvds,
while my Netflix account remains untouched.
could I be anymore of an abomination,
with my tattooed skin, and pierced face,
cutting the crusts off of my bread. as mementos of my past
seep into my mind, I wonder
when I’ll see the starting line,
or if it’s already left me behind.

two feet shuffle
onto the matted down, stained-brown, maroon-ish
welcome mat while

a head shakes off the dusting of snow
its shaggy hair has collected.

breath billows out of a mouth
like smoke from a burning cigar as

a body, with glasses fogged, fingers frosted,
bundled up in scarfs, and mittens, and layers galore
inches into the grocery store

where a bagboy slouches in a
half-dazed stupor, eyes glued to the clock,

a self-righteous old lady with her
back bent, voice shrill,
haggles the price of soup

and a baggy-eyed mom snaps hushed
chastisements to a *****-faced boy,
with ratty hair falling onto his blushed face.

in this store, customers move slow,
with nowhere to be and nowhere to go

and the holiday jingle heard playing
above them, betrays their heavy hearts
and sunken spirits.

outside, it is cold,
but inside this store,
it is no different.