I don't want a Hollywood love.
I don't want a hot pink, blazing hot love.

I want my love to be cotton briefs.
I want my love to cradle that which I hold dear.
I want my love to be gentle and soft,
But only I can feel it.
You don't share your underpants
As such I don't share my love. It is only mine.

I want my love to make others feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. Because the more I rant on, the more they realize that while sometimes it sounds constricting, it keeps you all together when you need to move.

I want my love to be marked with my last name.
To have and to hold forever.
Because I know that my love will be with me
Through all the ****, all the *******, and every last bit of life.
Even if my love rides up every once in a while
I know that it's just trying it's best. And I love my love for that.

You were beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You will always be beautiful.

Because when something is beautiful, it will never stop being beautiful.

When I was a freshman, we read Romeo and Juliet.
My teacher asked us, “Do you think this is love?”
I looked her straight in the face.
“Of course it is.”
She laughed. “This is not true love.
“This is what happens when teenagers have too many hormones.
“What they experienced was not love, love is shown through years.
“Love is shown through deeds through those years.
“Love is what you have after the good feelings leave,
“And the years you have make it all worth while.”
I wanted to scream at her, but I kept my composition.
Instead of saying anything, I bit my tongue, and remained in silence.
Then someone amongst us spoke up.
“I believe that it was true love.”
A young woman looked up at our teacher.
“I believe that it was true love because they sacrificed themselves
For each other.”
The teacher scoffed. “That’s not love. That’s stupidity.”
And with that, the lecture continued.

It only took me a week to tell you that I loved you.
And I meant it, completely and thoroughly.
“Don’t say that, Makana”
“I’ll say it if I mean it, and I do.”

It’s been one year, eight months, and three days.
And we’re still here. Now you can say, “I love you” back to me.
Now we know more about each other than anyone else in our lives.
I’ve shared my darkest secrets and my most ridiculous thoughts.
Together, we’ve cried, we’ve laughed, and I know that I love you.
It took me only a week to know that I love you.

And I don’t regret anything about it.

I am the hammer.
I cause the ignition.

I am the trigger.
I am the final thought.

I am the bullet.
I am my own demise.

Sometimes, I write poetry for show.
People read my metaphors,
And claim that they love them.
I climb onto their shoulders,
Lean against their heads,
And scream in their ears until,
"Oh, wow, that's so powerful."
Then I move on to the next person,
Waving a piece of paper in my hands.

Other times, I write because I want to share.
Not because I want people to love my poetry,
But because I want to know that some people feel like I do.
I love it when I find someone else that had a common misconception.
Or when someone else is a Whovian like I am.
Or when someone one else has read Atlas Shrugged from cover to cover.
It makes me feel connected on a level deeper than all the time, alcohol, and conversations that we could possibly have.
It helps me not to feel alone.

But most of my poetry gets tucked away.
Enjoyed only by me.
Like writing myself sticky notes.
Sometimes they're little things.
A simple phrase that brings entire afternoons back.
A private moment with my father that I loved.
A one-liner that a 10-year-old nailed me with.
They are little things, but they are mine.

Then there are big things.
Things that I have tried to hide from myself, but they reveal themselves eventually.
Until I capture them on paper.
Imprisoned forever and never bother me again.

This is why I write.
To share, to embrace, to remember, and to forget.
Everything else is just me yelling at the world, claiming to be a writer.

I remember in the days when I wore overalls
And had pajamas with dinosaurs on them.
When a pinky promise was unbreakable,
And whoever could run the fastest was king.
The world was huge.
A trip to the grocery store was a great journey.
A small boat ride was a quest for the Golden Fleece.
Flying on an airplane was like going to another planet.


Then I became a teenager.
The world was smaller.
The internet had compacted it.
The media shaped it.
The elders squandered it.
And I believed them.
I saw pictures.
I saw people write about their exotic trips.
How they found the culture in India to be quite lovely,
But the temperature was over-bearing.
How they found that everyone loves their beer in Ireland,
But the greater beauty was in the landscapes.

Now I am older... ish.
But I see more truth than ever before.
They found.
They thought.
But what do I think?
What do I think of these places that I have never gone to?
To tell you the truth,
I don't know.

But that world that was once small.
That world that was so infinitesimally microscopic.
Suddenly came roaring into my head.
Venice was waiting for me to visit it!
To sail on a gondola with a beautiful Italian girl.
Paris awaited me!
To indulge in delicious cuisine!
Germany had its arms wide open!
They think they can drink?
I say, "Prost!"

The world is open and ready for adventure, my friends!
So, who's coming with me?

up. up. down. down. left. right. left. right. A. B. Start

They just want to be together.
They desperately attempt form a single word.
But no, their love is thrown away as if it were a 6th grade research paper.
Grammar Nazis reject their love,
And there it lies like a rose trampled on the ground.
Still, I have hope.
I have alot of hope.
"A" and "Lot" deserve to be together.
We see them everyday, and they need each other.
They need each other alot.

How dare this child look at me with such disgust.
His insolence should be punished.
He should be strung up,
Attached to a horse
And driven through the city in shame.

How dare this pubescent squirt be angry.
He has no reason to be.
I am simply doing what I am supposed to do.

How dare this post-Pampers maggot accuse me of not listening.
After all, he is just a child.
And I.
I am the adult here.

Slap the keyboard. Repeat in stanzas.

That Lightning Bolt is killing me.
It sits there in the top right corner right next to my home,
Staring at me while I write.
"Hey you... I see you're writing a poem.
"Do you think a lot of people will read it?"

What I have to say is,
"I hope so."

But then I chastise myself.
WHO CARES?
I don't write for them!
I write for me!

I rubbed you down the spine.
Your skin felt warm to the touch.
I cracked you open and let your scent run.
To me, that delicious scent is life.
It fills my lungs, allows me to be inspired.
It reminds me of younger days.
Days when the fairy tales would overtake me.
Of gleaming blades in the thousands.
Of a cauldron bubbling green.
Of dragons and horses across the land.
Thank you, my Escape.
Thank you, old Friend.

Mumbling solitude.
Creating circumstances.
Rejecting reality.
Relieving pain.

All perfectly fine things to do.
But really, I'm just sitting in the shower.

AN EXPLOSIVE NATURE.
UNWILLING TO ALLOW FOR RATIONAL THOUGHT.

It remains hidden.
Bubbling under the surface.

Each small detail then annoys you.
Like a mine cart going down hill,
Momentum builds.

Then you.... RELEASE.
EVERY PORTION OF YOUR BODY IS LIKE AN IRON HEATED TO A BRIGHT ORANGE.
YOUR FIST IS BALLED AND YOU JUST NEED TO EXERT EVERY OUNCE OF FRUSTRATION.
YOU YELL AND SCREAM WITH FACE CONTORTIONS WORTHY OF HELL BOUND SOULS.

or.

You bite your tongue.
Remind yourself to calm down.
Save that rage for another day.
But it's still there. Bubbling. Waiting.
It will consume you eventually.

A, B, C, D...
As I twist the stem of my breakfast apple.
Where does life go from here?

Behold the Weight upon my back,
In stunning armor, no luster lack.
He rides and rides till break of day,
Plotting out the fastest way.
To save a damsel in distress,
A challenge conquered by the best.
Riding above the mountains and the sea,
But really he sits. He sits on me.

We arrived at our destination,
He prepares for his occupation,
of rescuing princesses from a tower.
For that is all that's in his power.
So there I wait, and watch him leave,
Walking to the gates with ease.
He left me with no water to drink,
So I decide to wait and take a leak.

It was minutes until he came out,
Running around and all about.
A young girl upon his shoulder,
Just as the night was growing colder.
He threw the ***** upon my saddle,
And loaded me up like some cattle.
He jumped up and decided to scream,
"RUN RUN, YOU ******* STEED!"

And so I ran, as they both sat,
Galloping hard as those two chat.
They spoke of riches and much gold,
Of their parents, all reasonably old.
We arrived at the great castle gates,
As I was reminded of how little I ate.
Looking over at a couple of goats,
Munching on delicious oats.

I was drawn, for I was starved,
But into my side, my Weight carved.
He pulled my reins towards the castle gate,
He would not dare to be late.
When we had made our approach,
He tied me to a very strong post.
"Stay here and don't move," he said to me.
"I'll come back later, you will see."

He entered the gates and let me be.
I waited for the night, but did not see
The Weight come back, like he said he would,
I was hoping he was not gone for good.
It was then that I saw a shadow move.
It was a superstition that I did not approve.
Behold, a thief in the night,
Come to steal with all his might.

In his hand, he held a large bag,
Of gold and jewels, and royal flag.
He leaped upon my back to escape,
His confidence left my mouth agape.
I dare not move, my Weight will return,
Him and his wicked little spurs.
The thief leaped off and scuffled around.
He went into the stable to bring a bag, round.

He opened the bag, and there I did see.
A bagful of oats, and they were all for me!
He took a handful and put them to my nose.
I ate them all quickly, fastest I chose.
He patted my hair, and gave me a scratch,
He sang me a song, and let me relax.
He leaped on my back and spurred one last time.
I gave him a prize, because he gave me mine.

What makes one man superior to another?
Born at different times.
Birthed by different people.
Forged in different habitats.
Formed by different education.
The men are different in every sense,
Yet they are compared by the same bar.

Truly, a man should only measure himself,
Against who he was yesterday.

I close my eyes and breathe.
She was innocent.
She look at me with love.

I close my eyes and breathe.
I became lustful.
I came after her and she let me.

I open my eyes and hold my breath.
She stopped calling.
She ignored me.

Still holding my breath.






She left.






I open my eyes and breathe.
It has taken 19 months,
But I can finally breathe again.


But it still hurts.

Hear the white noise?
It steals away all tender moments.
It is a thief of joy and affection.
It drives towards disorder.
It tempts man to stupidity.

Hear the white noise?
It’s the sound of 1000 guitars.
Not with glorious chords.
Not with wondrous solos.
But with feedback.

Hear the white noise?
It lead me down the wide path.
It brought me to the easy way out.
It allowed me to coast through.
It blocked all natural thought.

I heard the white noise.
I let it steer my soul.
I let it play me.
I allowed myself to blame it,
For losing you.

Sometimes I dream of suicide.
An elaborate term of my demise.

If I attempt by great height,
My head is then full of fright.
"The height is far too great."
Stepped away from edge of my estate.

If I attempt to take it by knife,
I then begin to think of my wife.
Lying there, like a crazed fellow,
For the Lord knows I am no Othello.

If I try to take it through grief,
That suicide would be none too brief.
The long drawn out hectic space,
Of wading through troubles at a slower pace.

But that is the method that I choose,
For I cannot attempt the cunning noose.
If by noose, I commit the crime,
I would solve my problems fine.

But by then the deed would be done,
I would be departed, the world won.
But I will not back down like that.
I shall go on, with the word, "attack."

My life will not be solved by you,
I'm sorry for bluntness but it's true.
I will forge my own perfect path,
With all of my problems facing my back.

This is how I shall do the deed.
Go down fighting, the rest will be history.

I am a teenager.
I refuse to back down or give in.
I will not be silent in the face of tyranny.
I am the voice of both past and future generations.
I am the in-betweener for the too young or the too old.
I am the purgatory between a child and an adult.
I will not be swayed to be who my parents are.
I will not be pushed into someone else’s beliefs.
I am me.
I am an individual who will not fit a mold.
But I will not pit my soul against another.
I wield not a sword, but a shield.
I will protect those who are less than me,
And stand against any oppressors
Regardless of success or failure.
My scars will be badges of honor.
My soul may be beaten down,
But always know that I will get back up.
Whether it be of stupidity or courage,
I refuse to lose to any oppressor.
I am a teenager.
I am strong.
And I will not be defeated.
I will never give up who I am.

Imagine a world.
What do you see?
Do you see a place of paradise?
Do you see the rivers?
Tigris and Euphrates?
A place where all is bountiful,
And the sun forever shines
And darkness is forever lost.
Or do you see a world drenched in fire?
Overcome with the emotional grief
Of the death of it’s natural resources,
Of echoes coming down the corridors,
Starved bodies lying on the floor,
And villains run amuck?
A long time ago, a man wrote about a Lady and a Tiger.
His mission is mine.

The moon was my mistress tonight. She offered me light when it was needed, and never was it too harsh as the sun, that gaseous blimp in the morning and evening sky. His conceit to reveal his ostentatious rays were unlike the moon who looked so beautiful in her silver linen of light and her drapes of dark clouds overlapped each other in a silken pattern. Her black and silver cloth combined to create shapes of known and unknown animals.

The animals flew to cover her face momentarily covering her true beauty only to reveal that extraordinary face surrounded by sparkling gems like a goddess that could rival Aphrodite. It was not until I examined closely that I saw those few blemishes on her face. Those dark spots located in a spontaneous order, but it only added further to her beauty. It was in her imperfections that she rivaled the illusion of Aphrodite. With her flaws, she symbolized true beauty by having the ability to reveal her disfigurements and still remain the most beautiful heavenly body.

The moon’s light came down to reveal only the bare essentials of the earth. She allowed enough light to see, but not to examine the other beauties of the planet. It was almost like she demanded the attention after living in the shadow of the sun quite literally.

The sky seemed to be so dark and uninviting in comparison to the moon. It was like staring into the eyes of an apathetic killer. It held the moon gently as a father would. My mistress was suspended in the sky. She floated above the earth gracefully held by the sky’s imposing body.

The sky stood by her side as a defender, almost daring me to approach her and giving me an impending doom that would fall upon me. Perhaps, Chicken Little dared to look upon the moon and that is when the sky fell on him.

My mistress revealed the world in a monochromatic fashion allowing for fantasies of old drive-in movies and black onyx set in pearl. The trees were silent in such a night, and not a single sweep of wind came to disrupt the sleeping trees. My mistress demanded total respect for this night which only occurred every thirty days.

Her peerless body wrapped in dark silk, the moon glided across the night sky as if she had all the time in the world, and she did. She would not allow anything less from her subjects. She would not allow her few moments of glory to be taken from her.

Even the smallest of creatures honored the moon’s enchanting presence. They dared not move nor buzz nor hum. They sat and meditated on the spell that the moon had placed on them. They had desired to become as I was. They wanted to be one with the moon as I was, for she guided me in the darkest of nights, and would never forsake me when I needed her.

It was then that the sky began to ripple. The moon began to dance and the stars were a chorus line. Her face smiled at me once final time through the mirror of the water. She knew that I thought I was not worthy to see her face-to-face. The connection was finally interrupted. I had become as those small creatures and once again the wind swept through the world.

Those days when it hits you so hard.

You stagger, and try to recover.

But no, it remains like a brick wall.

Pushing against reality, but it takes all

Your might, your soul, your power.

You try and try, and scream a little louder.

But no one can hear you as gravity presses down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Farther and farther into the ground.

Because all of those little facts that were,

are no more.

Because people have changed around.

But the worst part is, admitting that, through it all,

You've changed too. That you are no longer a child.

That your life flashed past you, and the entire time,

You were afraid to take a chance.

You put it off until later.

But now the time has come.

It has come and it's knocking down your door.

Making you face the harsh world by force.

So now, the little amount of innocence that you have left,

That little voice inside your head that screams,

"No! I'm not going. You can't make me!"

is silenced forever.

The world will never seem the same again.

But the worst part is, that I don't want it to be.

The Land of the Free…

Is it? Isn’t it? I thought so.

America is everyone’s land.

Or so that’s what they claim.

It became a land filled with

Lies and deception.

They lied within their lies,

It might as well be Inception.

“Be who you want to be,

As long as it is who we want.”

That’s what the Motto should be.

But this is America. MY AMERICA.

I would die for the Stars and Stripes.

Because I was told that I was entitled

That my ancestors bleed for this land,

And that this land is worth dying for.

A place where you can be who you want to be,

No matter of race, ****** orientation, or religion.

That’s the land that I’m willing to die for.

A place where every man is entitled to their opinion,

Without discrimination. Where no man condemns.

I fight for freedom. Not for myself, I know that I’m free.

I fight for freedom. For my fellow man,

Because I know they deserve it,

Just as much as I do.

Just as much as anyone does.

I fight for freedom,

What do you fight for?

Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.

They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.

When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.

My tie was straight,
My suit was clean,
And my hair was neatly combed.
I entered the car
Complete with parents
Desperately feeling alone.

My mom spoke words
I could not hear,
Over the sound of her natural nag.
I would never tell her,
I could never tell her,
How she could be such a hag.

Her controlling ways,
Her pessimistic view,
How she will always nip and pick.
And when I argue,
Even just a little tad,
She makes me to be the ****.

I am sworn to a book,
Bound with leather
To serve it with my life.
Although I doubt it,
I don’t believe that
It will cause more than strife.

It caused pain,
It caused suffering,
As it spread across the masses.
But truly it failed,
The Way is torched,
By those heinous *******.

But I will suffer through,
A life of monotony,
For it is the only life I know.
This life is mine,
This cross is mine,
To put on a happy show.

I will smile at people,
I will pass through
As people scoff at me.
I will never tell them,
That my religion
Is actually killing me softly.