I love to write about skin
The kind that sweat
I love to write about hands
The kind that touch
I love to write about air
The kind that is shared
I love to write about kisses
The kind that are true
I love to write about nights
The kind that is endless

I hate turkey dinner.
1. it's too dry
2. it's fake
(well the family is)
3. too many calories to burn
(dancer life)
It is just not my thing.

A tiny binder
Filled with paper and pockets.
Yet it is empty.
My brain is empty and void.
Where do I start?
The bad?
The good?
There was no in between.
My hand is shaking,
Heart pounding,
Head spinning.
I can not do this.
It will end the same,
With a tear filled page
Of a goodbye never said.

English 2H.
The place with 1 teacher,
25 students.
We learn pronouns
And a story or two.
Shakespeare is God
And you will go to hell if you can't spell.
Sadly there is no learning.
If you don't know it,
Well..
That's it.
Burn in Alphabet Soup.

Let's cover the walls,
In words we will never say,
Sheets we'll never sleep in,
Pictures never taken.
Let's be blind to what could of been.

Lately all I write is burps.
I am so broke I can't finish.
I used to title everything,
Maybe that's where I went wrong.
I titled us,
Lovers.
I don't do it anymore.
I probably never will.
No reason to name a stray dog,
When it will run away.