I don't often feel
Sad
And if I do
I can replace it
Quickly
With many things.
I have other
Feelings
That I prefer
And it isn't difficult
For me
To choose
Not
To be sad.
I do not
Cry
Partially because
I cannot
Easily.
Perhaps I am
Cried out?
I used to
Cry
But I don't
Now.
I have outlets
To release emotion
And a couple
People
To talk to.
I don't even have to tell people
About my problems
Because they are minor
And I feel
Odd
Awkward
Ashamed
To bring it up
Even if I am asked.
So even a friendly
Conversation
Helps
Even if the person is unaware
Of their impact
On my life.
I wonder
If these people know
How much I appreciate
Them
Love
Them
I want to help them.
With their worries
I want to improve their moods
But sometimes I need
Help
Myself.
Because no one
Is strong enough
Alone.

Hum,
they apologize.

There were too many strands of hair being missed,
elephant painted mugs fell fast;
and of the smiles,
the ones hinted with swaying hips,
they dropped with the dollars.

Hum,
they tried.

There was too much hope for her,
chopstick legs swinging round on plates;
and of the love,
the ones committed with half urgency,
they lingered like splinters.

Hum,
they forgot.

There was too much sadness,
groups of mourning children;
and of the stuck ones,
the ones wanting to fly,
they lived on.

Hum,*
they said.

We were only trying to drown her.

I call my father's father Ye-Ye
because he is a traditionalist
and the word grandfather reminds him of England.

My mother calls him a selfish *******
because he never approved of her wallet's emptiness
and walked out of her wedding.

My father calls him an immature *****
because he throws temper tantrums at eighty-seven
and still doesn't respect anyone.

When I was five,
I stayed over alone for the first time.
I accused him of trying to poison me
because I found a dead fly in my soup.

When I was ten,
I found a coupon at the market
And got him a free box of Cheerios.

When I was thirteen,
I was sitting with him outside.
I got stung by a bee
and didn't say a word.

I have not seen my grandfather in seven years.

He has since almost died four times.

My aunt calls him a racist snob
because he refused to put my biracial cousin's picture on the mantle
and boasts of his friend's grandchildren instead.

when freedom goes the distance
let freedom walk her mile
tell all the people of this world
that freedom take a while but
when you get a taste of her
then freedom rings her bell
yes all mankind shall run to her
when freedom walked her mile

because we fell in love with the law
and fell out of love with ourselves.

because the ***** of great minds
wear pineapple fatigues in their fathers’ *******;

from Judas swallowing 9 bullets
to one day being a kid at heart
a symptom of some abnormality.

Ever get the feeling that you’ll die on a Tuesday?

Or one day wake up on their government bed
Screaming,
“you can blame the French Revolution
On silent reading!”

watching

as three teacups of *** plan war on the asphalt.

She painted him
sunsets and mountains
and love, to try to take
the grief away.

She wrote words of
inspiration and hope
and complexity
to show him how simple
happiness could be.

But she failed to see
how deep his sorrow went,
and she couldn't draw a
rope long enough to rescue
him and every escape she tried
to write for him led to a dead
end, and he was left to
sit there and be consumed
by every malicious thought
ever to exist.

My eyes
Are the warm blue-grey of
The moments just before
My beloved Wisconsin sunrise
My veins, just below scared skin
Burn for a breeze
And a day that doesn't feel
Like an old painful memory.
I want to be on my motorcycle.
I want the hazardous road unraveling
Right behind me
Away from that sunrise
Away from the people
Written in my scars.