the asphalt is smooth
the tires of my bike glide
over hot pavement

the sky: inky black
a bright beam cuts through darkness
the cars will see me

a bottle broken
a car window that shattered
either can deflate

shall we keep going
or shall we stop for coffee
giving pedals rest?

I'm too scared to act,
to commit to what I'm feelin'
On the outside I am calm
but my mind and soul are reelin'

my body is a temple to a god I don't believe in,
and I'm locked in here.

Everybody everybody
tells me it's ok,
that it's always been this way
"just you wait another day."
Everybody everybody
seems to be so strong
I believe that something's wrong
Somehow I have turned out wrong.

I'm terrified, cold,
want to die want to live.
I'm to weak to hold a grudge
but not quite ready to forgive.

My mind is dripping, dripping through that metaphoric sieve.
But I'm still in here.

Everybody everybody
tells me it's ok,
that it's always been this way
"just you wait another day."
Everybody everybody
seems to be so strong
I believe that something's wrong
Somehow I have turned out wrong.

And I feel the eyes behind me
they're watching, watching, watching.
And I feel the eyes behind me
as they stare.
And I feel the eyes behind me,
they're watching, watching, watching.
Can't escape, I can't escape,
'cause I'M TRAPPED IN HERE.

Everybody everybody
tells me it's ok,
that it's always been this way
"just you wait another day."
Everybody everybody
seems to be so strong
I believe that something's wrong
Somehow I have turned out wrong.

So very wrong.

heat and humidity hit
as I walk out the sliding doors
of the 7/11 cream soda in hand
I walk yawning across the asphalt
where water still pools from
summer showers
as I open the car door I
notice the haze of smog
and starlight and fluorescent
lamps and smell the gasoline
from the thousands of cars
that pass through
I close the door.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
Set yourself free,
sing until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your chest
and let your heart say
what your mind can't
Act as if you own the day
and all that you live
and all that you see
and all that you feel
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
and tell her that you miss her
but you'll be back someday.
Because being a writer is traveling
through a wide and dangerous and wonderful world
and coming home must wait.
Remember to love yourself
even if it's hard to do with
ideas cluttering your brain.
and Reality tapping at your skull
saying is this worth it?
Warn the neighbors that if they hear voices
It's just your soul
changing and creating.
Learn how to accept others.
Learn to let go of everything you don't need
in order to stay sane,
Learn how to grow
from your failures.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
write

I'm not a Poet.
I'm just a scared kid,
who babbles on endlessly
about fears and hopes and dreams.

I'm not a Poet.
I have never been in love,
or found deeper truth
in the flight of a skylark.

I'm not a Poet.
My writings aren't tied with red ribbons,
I own no pet bear or lobster on a leash.
My heart is not a paperweight.

I'm not a Poet.
I won't become your Ideal,
I am flawed and real and Human.
I only write poems.

The world is wide,
Leaves not full turned,
The breeze is cool,
The sun is warm.
All edges are in sharp relief
as Fall begins to cut her teeth.

Words are hard.
I know I'm not saying
Anything revolutionary.
For all of the human race
Speech poses a quandary:
Do I speak?

Words are hard.
You know the saying:
Like a stone, words hurt:
Shattered bones, shattered soul,
Shattered self worth.
Can I speak?

Words are hard.
They take more energy
than I have left to give.
Perhaps if I ignore the rest
I'll have a will to live.
Why should I speak?

Words are hard.