mediocre and
faded
the average poem
no longer strikes chords
in the heart's harp
use extravagant vocabulary
weave your words tight
until they seem uncomfortable
the original meaning lost
between the claustrophobic corners
covered in lace and pretentious boasting
try but don't try so hard
that no one but the classic readers
would be able to understand
the words you've worked so hard to convey
do not force a poem out
or it will stick your fingers and
it will create a mess
similar to a teenage boy
it will be long and uncomfortable with itself
unknowing of how to adjust
into this thing that is supposed to be
mature now despite wanting to be simple
do not rush poetry
find quiet inspiration
in silent observations
of yourself, of nature
rushing poetry makes it fast
too many unfilled thoughts
racing around in one space
not meeting each other
despite being so close together
tell a story with imagery
with delicate words of morality
tell a story with flashbacks
with soft lips and with stained shirts
tell a story with love
make your poems with care

the words that flow from my fingers
when had they turned into other's?
as i sit and type
mindlessly staring into space as
letters materialize on the black keys
i realize that these words
are being parroted
i am like a megaphone
taking someone else's voice
and projecting it further
spreading the idea
but never speaking by myself

music flows through
tangled earbuds
at 2am
glazed over eyes
trying not to think of
tomorrow

in a city of skyscrapers
lies a sanctuary
for the introverted
leather binding and worn pages
thumbed out by eager readers
and patient bookworms
the smell of crisp new pages mixed with
beloved classics quietly sitting side by side
wooden tables and a kindergarten mat
spread next to comics and Clifford
haphazardly placed signs
signaling areas
outdated computers and shelves of movies
hidden corners away from librarians' prying eyes
put to questionable use by teen volunteers
whispered words and
clasped hands
library days.

like a mask,
your expression fit perfectly
on top of your features
a perfect poker face
your shield against the world

i had been the one to break it
with confiding secrets
expertly timed jokes
awkward blushes and
desperate kisses
slowly, slowly
it faded when you were with me

i regret
being the cause for your mask
to rise up again

i realize i
will never be able to love you
the way you wish to be loved
i am not
a person to attach to
i am too afraid of you leaving
to appreciate you staying

this deep
stabbing stake
wrenched in my chest
feels so nostalgically familiar
i welcome it with open arms
despite the hurt that comes with it
i am a self *******
and shove it even deeper
until it feels like i am choking
desperate for air
the stake turns to poison
falls into the depths of my stomach
and curls up there, forcing
the contents inside out
into a porcelain bowl
3 am and nothing but a wrecked mess
pale and shivering
cheek pressed against the cool tile
of a beige bathroom floor
shaky breaths spill out from
terrified lips
frantically wondering
if they will be my last
yet day after day
my eyes seek you out

self masochism is my only talent, i say
as i watch you kiss her
bullets riddle my chest
yet i still smile and say i am fine
self masochism is my only talent, i scream
because if i am not happy
the only thing that matters is you
even if i fall at least it was for you
self masochism is my only talent, i whisper
it feels as if i am dying
with every step i take i wonder
if you hate me for what i did for you
self masochism is my only talent,
but i cannot speak no more
for i bite my tongue and drown myself in self pity
this stake that emerges from my chest
is just another heartbreak

normal humans
don't need to
take a two hour name after school
to recharge their emotions
normal humans
don't need to
stop and remember where
they had just been
five seconds after they'd left
normal humans
don't need to question what they look like
or force the strings of their puppet flesh costume
to move to remind them
that they are alive
normal humans
don't need to fake their emotions
without knowing what they actually feel like
a rough copy of what should have been real

maybe i am not
a normal human