Why are so many poems sad?
So serious and full of melancholy?
Where are all the poems of puppies and socks fresh out of the dryer,
Those poems that fill you with glee?

I want those rhyming schemes filled with jokes,
That make you want to chuckle and stamp your feet,
That make you feel a bit happier,
That make you feel a bit of cheer.

I know that it all can't be kittens and rainbows,
But can we open the blinds from time to time,
To let natures beauty shine through to you and me?

I loved him
And he didn’t love me
The sun still rose
And it still set
I’m trying to figure out
How to go on
The way the sun does
Without him

If you come as softly
As the wind within the trees
You may hear what I hear
See what sorrow sees.

If you come as lightly
As threading dew
I will take you gladly
Nor ask more of you.

You may sit beside me
Silent as a breath
Only those who stay dead
Shall remember death.

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why now.
Or how, or what you do.

We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich between us
Shall drink our tears.

we messed up
when everything had to have
a grade.
a poem need not be good
nor bad,
just it.

Do you know what I find funny?
My room never fails to mirror my psychological state of being.
Like right now.
I’m currently sitting amongst my disheveled sheets and scattered laundry.
But I’m also desperately searching for my bonnet within the chaos.
And just like with my bonnet,
I can’t quite pinpoint what my thoughts are centered upon.
My bonnet could be anywhere,
Though my room is only so large.
And my thoughts could be anywhere,
Though I can’t imagine having much to think about.

Do you know what I find even funnier?
If I were to clean my room,
Right now,
I would probably find my bonnet.
I would most likely discover it under my pillowcase or behind my bed frame;
Perhaps on top of my desk or in my dresser.
But I refuse.
I mean where would I start,
And how long would it actually take me?
Yeah, I’m good.
I’m used to sitting in my clutter anyway.

My abusers are doing fantastic
I know what they did
I know what I became
under pressure, to save myself
I became
ten times as fantastic as them
as they'll ever be
I could carry their burdens
walking on razor blades
and I have,
and
I'll do it again