expect that you won't know what to do with yourself for a while.

expect that you'll be timid and untrusting and reluctant.
expect that people will want an explanation
and that you won't want to give them one.

expect that weekends will make you gnash your teeth and rip your clothes
expect that maybe you'll feel sorry
that maybe you'll want to break the sacred silence that fell like a blanket over your heads
comforting to you
stifling to him...

expect to be afraid of the future.
expect to miss the good parts of him...


expect to someday feel alright again
and realize that this is the first step.

When I was nine
I saw a punk rock band preform for the first time
On American Idol.
I asked my mom,
"Why do they hold the microphones so close to their mouths?"
She smiled simply sighing
"It's their style. They're not trying to sound good."
She kissed the crown of my head goodnight
And that was that.

When I was ten,
I asked my mom how she met my father.
She told me of their late night chats
Tangled up in phone lines
Currents of love flowing through the receiver
Currents of his whimsical charm
And her shy glow.
Something seemed wrong with the fact that they met
Talking through hard plastic
Not matching faces
But I didn't ask
And that was that.

When I was thirteen,
I asked my mom why all the boys picked on me
Why they strung my emotions across they're tongues
Like popcorn on a wilted Christmas tree
Or why they played connect-the-dots with my face
Using it to spell the word
"Ugly"
Why they teased me so much
I came home with acid tears corroding my cheeks
My mother had told me one other time
When I was about five
And a boy hurt me
Pulled my hair like he was gutting intestines from fresh meat
Her answer:
"It's just because he likes you."
And that was that.

you offered me food and
got angry at me for declining
and you thought you were
helping by forcing me to
eat in public places and
laughing when i couldn't
and you thought you were
a riot when you were
making hundreds of
weight jokes but truth
be told i was never worse
than when i endured the
months of torture i did
when i called myself
*yours

Mouthfuls of lead
Cannot silence
Free speech.

People.
Poets.
Arise.

The pen is mightier
Than the
AK-47.

i have a weakness for the feeling this love makes
for good pens and cool hikes and blank pages and new music
i have a weakness for the dim blue light in your bedroom from the tv we pretend to watch
and i have a weakness for the way you sometimes softly speak your thoughts
i have a weakness for tree trunks i can't wrap my arms all the way around and for car rides with the windows down
my knees go ******* weak every time you touch me and i bite my ******* lip every time we make eye contact and all my peripheral vision sees is the ceiling, i have a weakness for blue eyes and blonde hair
for striped bed sheets now, for bass guitars and the little habits you keep
i  have  a  weakness  for  the  feeling  this  love  makes,
i get so weak i'd crumble up my rib cage just to prove you have access to my heart
but the miraculous thing is
this feeling of weakness that comes with love
is incomparable to the way that you make me strong

So, as you know, I'm the kind of person
who prefers to traverse the worst news first
before dispersing with friendly pleasantries.

But, if I may speak free and honestly
I'm tired carrying around the genes
that subject me to overcome obscene

obstacles from your insecurities
as well as the fears of our ancestors.
I know there are lessons learned in character  

karma before switching out from one car
to another but sweet jesus, sometimes
it's hard to take a break or find space to breathe!

And you wonder sometimes why I cannot
ride over the same roads you built, spilling
oil, drilling mountains, supporting wars and more

systems that are killing the poor and/or
brown men and children. Well then, for my health
and well-being I need to at least find some peace

in the things I can control and support,
things and people that build a rapport with
my mind, heart and soul, so my blood flow don't fly

so high from the things I cannot control
like all the old school phobias and the
nervousness lurking in your minds before I

was even born. There's no scorn from me, but
maybe an occasional forlorn sigh,
only because I love you, and know you're trying.

But please, please... I appreciate that you
want me to succeed, but to be honest
I really, really don't need your help, your genes

are enough of an obstacle course through
hell to get to heaven, because at some
point my being is gonna get sore cause there's

no way in hell you can convince me to
take more or just accept that that's the way
it has been when I can see other paths that

have been, perhaps less traveled, if at all,
leading to happiness and freedom to
be the change you have been seeking from the start.

But we cannot do it if our hearts hurt
or lungs burn or can't find ways to work and
learn together because we are, it is
& that's it.