rustling leaves whisper love poems
               into the listening ears of lonely poets
                                            no one knows what has become of the
                      truth anymore
         its lost with the real lies of fake people
                                                hearts break more often than love is found
                                           young funerals are more common than real love
  heart-ship and hard-ship
            wrestle in common puddles throughout winter
                             lights flicker out as a parents yell at their teenager/s
             for simple things that they once knew how to do
a teenager fights back, forever scared of them and what might happen
                                             families tear apart like shredded documents of marriage certificates
                two young lovers fumble with clothing in the dark
                             trying to find some bliss in the world
where every happy memory is ripped from them
                                                     a child screams when they realize they've lost their mother
          in a once bright, now terrifying supermarket
                                  flowers blossom only to wilt again

How is one to be one's own
All there is to feel is disdain
What else is to be shown
To feel anything, especially happiness, is pain

"Nothing is original": Teenage Anthem
No truer words have ever been written
Emotions can't belong to any of them
They're sent via a social subscription
All one's thoughts are already said ever so splendidly
Force fed back to the mind (a reminder of the artfulness not of thyself) that couldn't vocalize
The poet says "It's nice to not be alone" all too friendly
No words have been a greater weapon to terrorize
To not be alone in the feeling of apathy is
all one needs to feel at ease...

"She wore a garland of pale blue roses,
and her eyes wept blood."

She had hair like that of black silk,
and her skin was cloaked in a milky-hue.

She had eyes you never remembered the
color of, only the fist that seemed to inflate
within the confines of your throat.

She went on plenty of dates, but the
events rumored to have happened were
never reliable (teenage boys).

She was obsessed with poetry,
always reading in class, but, like most
obsessions, I think it stemmed from jealousy.

You see, everyone thought she merely
loved the poems, but, truly,
she wanted to be one.

Ugh, humidity
Pressing in
Suffocating 
Sticking to everything
To you and me but not us, together
This is not the good kind of sticking
of skin on skin, nervous sweaty palm in nervous sweaty palm.
This is the kind that just makes life uncomfortable
and unpleasant
But at least God has thought this through
and gave us the rain
to go with it
Rain is beautiful
Intoxicating
Purifying
I want to get drenched. 
Soaked.
I want to be free
Rain is free.
Ha, I'm not a poet, or a writer
I'm just an overdramatic hormonal angsty teenage girl 
that likes to put down her feelings in her phone notes
And hopes that someone will read and understand 
but at the same time 
wants to remain 
unknown.

Near two decades since they arrived
The two geminis that would change the world
Fumblestumbletumble to teenage dream (phone screens are like stars in the night)
Two sets of eyes long for the landscape beyond the foggy window they share

They are specters like all teenagers
Shadows floating down hallways with the echoes of laughs left behind
But magic lies in those lilting giggles
As if to mock Plato himself for ever dreaming of the shadows (and the caves and)
Heads tilt as eyes gleam
Hair puffed with the tempest of their heredity and half-remembered fears
(Assuming fears can be so)
Shakes with the head as the laughter begins
Self aware at the kabuki theater

While in the vibrations of the beat to their dance
The poet's heart throbs and the champion's digs into the ground
Roots to dig and battles to win
Love (they say it's all you need but) in each wrist-flick and hug
Defiant in its drive (to what end)

The air is warm inside when we sit on a couch
Unaskable questions flying like the teenage dreams
And even though the wind blowing freezes
Sometimes the only warmth to thaw the skin comes from a loosened tongue
Or a smile with the unfindable answers shining on each tooth
So they laugh

And I am forever grateful

There is a room
In a small highschool

Where the teenage
Heart aches
Came to die

On a couch where
the poets
came to lie

And contemplate
The diffrence
between dying
and suicide

While the future
Directors
organized

Asking whether
she was ugly enough
to be beautifully alive

Or just dead inside

Such a place
Such Liberty

Watch your children

For in this
On the couch where
the poets came to lie

and the directors
conversed

in the small highschool

There
They learned what it feels
Like to be  alive

The poet sits across the table in the dimness
Toying with cigarettes, fingers, thoughts
Of a pair of collarbones like bumps in the road,
Reminders to slow down.

The poet falls in love three separate times in an hour,
Imagining more collarbones, eyelashes, lips
That suddenly ask if he’d like to order anything,
No room. No, he’s full head to heels of unspoken words.

The poet sips his water and we try to make him laugh because we are teenagers in a sports bar at three in the afternoon on a Friday and we just want him to be ******* happy, ******* it to hell.