Shakespeare, I'm writing you an emo poem.

Tyler cuts his wrists and plays piano 'cause he's so depressed.
You can tell it's not an exorcism though, since you can hear his lisp.

I don't play piano anymore (the ivories no longer tickle my fancy)
and I never really cut,
unless you count the symmetry,
or lack of it;
besides, I've always had a father.

Do you believe in demons, bard?
I'm not familiar enough with your works to know;
English didn't interest me much beyond the grammar.
Maybe that's a possession in itself, or an obsession at least,
since I don't think I could do the Devil justice--
and I'm none to bring light from darkness.

Do golden glittered gowns prove earnings or entitlement?
A different wealth perhaps, the philosopher kings of old (Do you know of those? I can't imagine otherwise, such a trove of inspiration).
I would not hold it against you if you didn't;
your productions sold for pennies,
and in the very least you were a man (or so the rumor goes).

All facades aside, I would inquire about purpose.
Were you satisfied with life? Were you not?
Did you desire a longer lease?
Would you say I should?
My outward walls are painted very gaily,
gayer than yours in all likelihood, or my boyfriend would say as much.
(I can't speak for the fashion of the times.)
Yet when I suffer loss, it seems absolute, one end and the other.
Do you approve of modern day's catharsis?

I expect a proper follow-up.

jet of bitumen,
a relaxed snaking coils
in the seeking hand.

tiny galaxies
b u    r s  t
and trinket words
shatter
all across the torched-glass plain----

frigid smouldering.
honest candescence--insulation,
clarity where the freshly birthed meet senex
and ashen widows dissipate
into thin air

I find Havisham in the glow.

my favorite hat says Love Yourself
because I need the ******* reminder

it’s pink, a color I used to think was girly, and
the brim has a floral print
the kind my mom told me was too flamboyant
   before she knew I was gay
before I needed the advice

but a mother always knows best
or that’s what they say, except
mine still doesn’t

the teacher I hate
used my hat as an example in class (poetic irony)
this is image
this is type
like we couldn’t read the screen

my lazy entitlement
bitter in his space
yet in my own room i still can’t read the words on the page,
or make myself.

i still look for purpose
but the weekend basement usuals tend to call first
(if anyone else called)
and I find comfort in
the ritual
it’s not that I fear responsibility

i’m hiding from myself
if there was a me to find

in the meantime,
i try to Love this
i try to Love something

i don’t usually taste the effort.

The petite girl in my class laughed today
a small peal of bells
poured over silent thickness
light
effortless

i hated the sound
a harsh metal clamor in my mind
so freely loosed

did she earn that accidental grace
from which her bright teeth flickered prettily?

Every poem sounds dumb
when read
in the right voice.