I often wonder whether I am failing myself but then I remember the girl I once was the one who was always the third wheel who carefully planned out and calculated her words only to be talked over when she finally spoke the one who was bullied by her first grade teacher who hated her looks and despised her body
who stared blankly into space until her mind was elsewhere the one who was called useless after trying her best throwing kindness like confetti at people who couldn't care less what would be the look on her face if she found out that I am working at a summer camp as happy as could be holding out my hand rather than being walked over cracking jokes without fear choking me to death opening the lid to my box a little more each day if only I could have washed her tears away hugged her and told her it will be okay

My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough

your music starts and eight counts leave my mind the magic of artistry blends together as twelve individuals move as one months of preparation for a taste of euphoria passion exudes from every pointed toe as their bodies tell the stories of their hearts an honor to behold the wonders of a dancer's soul you run to the wings, overflowing with joy wishing us luck as we admire your performance our team embraces before entering the stage hands outstretched as our music starts

For those who wonder

What my costume may be

On this lovely Halloween day

It has changed many times

Until I finally came to decide

I am the most realistic thing

That someone of my standing

And my personality may be

So for today, I have dressed as

What I see myself to be

Today I am a dead poet

Do you not see how well it fits

For someone as strange as me

So happy Halloween, my dear

Have all happiness and no fear

Everything is just pretend

Built for your enjoyment

It hurts like a heart held in your hands
how mine rumbles, facing tension it cannot bare

  When, not if, it bursts, and gushes tender
I'm left no longer a living man

        I cry "gentle," and you squeeze
        your nails like fangs, the serpent
       from which I ask a relief

holes in my heart that I cannot mend

  limp, like the lying antelope as it surrenders
the lion's jaw, thick in the firm of his neck

  so, you've cornered me in feelings,
with your kisses as your canines, I–

unwillingly accept

my hands remember
my hands remember

They remember the strings, lined across the frets

The remember the keys and how the chords connect

The remember the day, the first time I held a cigarette

and yet

today my hands forget...

I'll wake up from my unreal dream to another unreality
I sleep from this place back to a different world
I pace from here and there
not understanding my destination is where
And it's been so many lifetimes
I have passed from different modes
Walked so many different roads
to attain my true self
Close my eyes and connect back
A little bit of true self help.

My writing creates

order, but I also see --


more and more chaos.

I want to see you,

that's it, you really don't have --


to be sociable.