And sometimes I look down
At the floor while you talk.
They scare me sometimes
The words that come out of you
Slow and slick,
Filled with a generic substance,
They’re not even coherent.
Forming erratic sentences,
Like the paths that you follow.
Like the friendships you break.
The girls you meet, the family you love.
And the movies that you watch.
I worry about you. Honestly.
Like the words I type on this keyboard.

I can’t decide whether
Or not I’m right or wrong

Maybe steer both ways
Somehow or stay still

Mother screams at me
For protecting

The people
I don’t know

Because I believe
In cherishing

The front covers
Of beings

Ignoring
The inner darkness

That some coats
Contain

But I can smell it
If they step close enough

If they open their mouths
Wider than before

The lips form
The ***** offense

Periods
Commas
And question marks

Chins with
Layers of fuzz
That bounce up and down

That *****
And tickle a pink cheek

Chapped lips
Peeled white skin
Flakes of flesh


Bleeding gums
Plaque in corners
Possible cavities

Torn jeans and label brands
Holes in shirts and kitchen stains

Glossy lipstick
Cheap perfume
And a getaway attitude

Talking in bathrooms
White walls
Stained sinks

Library tables
Toppled water bottles
And ripped labels

Good riddance
Old coats

I wrote titles on strips of paper,
Books that I planned on reading,
On my shelf that contained one empty shelve,
I rolled them into *****.
And threw them into the cup,
Shaking up the titles,
I get a Mo Yan.
Then I get a Charles Dickens,
The paper ***** get reshuffled again.
I pick again, it’s Mo Yan.
The third time, it’s Mo Yan
READ ME, HE YELLS.
His short stories were read,
a few months ago.
Chinese folktale like stories,
With satire of Modern China.
But none of his novels,
were touched.
In one of them,
The bookmark stops at 300.

At night time my brain,
is in an endless loop.
From movies to cartoons,
Music videos and comedy.
Fragments of the unwanted
emotions of embarrassment.
Friends who have forgotten me,
And people I wish I knew.
And under these blankets,
I dream of another me,
One that can’t talk,
And one that speaks the brutal truth,
Who has all the power of the universe,
To bring her own self down.

I talked to a girl,
Who was texting,
On a white iPhone.
A quiet person,
forces herself in,
A conversation
with someone who isn’t interested.
Small talk.
Empty fluff.
Electronic letters,
Whet her appetite.
Chit chat is nothing.
Nothing more,
Than a pointless lesson,
On how to deal with odd people.

These poems ****,
I tell myself.
I follow a formula,
But it comes out tight.
I do it on my own,
It sounds too loose.
It’s loose in a sense,
That it came right from my flow of thoughts.
Off balance and perhaps preachy.
Maybe even redundant and bland.
Did that really come from me?
Where is this coming from?
WHO AM I!?
HOLY CHRISTMAS TREE!
Those words that I typed on my iTouch,
At midnight before a day of classes.
Please, just go to sleep already,
Jesus freaking Christ sitting with the Buddha in heaven,
GO TO SLEEP.