I am weary and old,
In an untraditional sense

Sweet sixteen has closed its doors on me
Yet adult eighteen is not ready to greet me

Either way, I am old
And have always been

Old does not mean wise,
But weary

I am just seventeen,
But the questions are ceaseless

Life scares me to death,
Time pulls me closer

It scares me to think,
"These questions wont leave me"

Year after year,
I'll be clueless and lonely

In an untraditional sense
It is lonely within me

Questions, which **** me softly,
A cancer of my mind

Needing no one,
Because lonely is greater
Than human interaction

And "lonely" is "seventeen"
That goes on forever.

She sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in,
with the boy who has died,
died the day before,
much after going to school,
with the girl who now sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in.

Reality does not hit her at first,
but four days later it assails,
crushing her skull and collapsing her lungs.

She stands holding a candle,
holding a candle in a pew,
in the church she once graduated in,
at the funeral of a boy who she graduated with,
remembering him in a blue dress shirt,
and glasses, with a round face
and tears stream from her eyes
and she feels the weight,
of a life lost too soon.

"You have fifteen minutes,"
he says,
"fifteen minutes to write a poem."

As if it's that easy

As if the rhythm and the cadence
are moments away

As if poetry is a sudoku puzzle,
logic and reason

When in reality,
there is nothing rational
about poetry

"Five minutes"

He is King,
of The ******* of the World,
Hermon

His palace
sits nobly on Klatt Road,
a trailer

He is a husband of one,
a father of two,
and a lover of three

One is a Tabby, fierce
Two is a bottle, undeniable
Three is a snort, a quick fix