Dad said i should get a life, and do what it means to be a man,
Instead of just dreaming and holding a spray can,
Whats life without expression?
I'm just a shell with no emotion,
He told me i need direction,

"Like hey, that job has good money" but comes with such a cost,
Id rather keep a flat wallet,
And how do you know you've found meaning in life when you've always seemed so lost,
I understand what i have in my hands, and i don't want to sound cliché like "man, I'm just a lost teen"
But we all think differently, and i don't want a life with routine,
Life at fifteen was so much easier,
Waiting for the evening end, to head out under the city lights,
From one place to another to end up some place else the next night.

Come, he who seeks my disquiet,
Does it please you to see my total fury?
Must you enrage my soul, enflame my emotions?
You’ve awoken the volcano in me, and it writhes in waves of anger,
So be it.

Come, he who seeks my grief,
Does it give you satisfaction to see my despair?
Must you depress my heart, dampen my sentiments?
You’ve awoken the ocean in me, and it flows in waves of sadness,
So be it.

Come, he who seeks my insanity,
Does it comfort you to see my struggle?
Must you sever my mind, obliterate my senses?
You’ve awoken the cave in me, and it echoes in waves of madness.
So be it.

Eating my meal at the usual fast food spot,
Public intimacy at the counter,
That love bird love,

Seeing person after person walk in,
So many memories in this very seat,
From back then,

Some moved on, some still in touch,
Those days when adrenalin was frequent,
The blood, my heart, would rush,

I still remember sitting on that hill,
In isolation staring out,
Into the stars and clouds,
Wondering what life's about,

This poem, written on a fast food napkin,
Concentration clouded,
By the noise of laughter and a screaming kid tantrum

The skate home that night,
My jacket shielded the cold from my neck,
It was 1 o'clock, no people, no cars in sight,
Except,

That one police car flying by,
Colors of blue and red,
With it sirens ringing,
Past my head.

Took the bus home.
Paid my $2.50,
no special discount.

Spent my day selling my wares,
But did not sell enough to
Pay the daily rent,
Hell, to even pay for lunch.

Gave up my seat for sweet,
Baby-child laughed at my
Gallantry, I think,
For his exclamations were
Of the shrieking pleasurable variety.

Saw Macbeth last night,
In the end, he dies,
Same as when I saw it
Last year.

Le plus ca change
The Frenchies say,
Wonder if they still wear berets
And say "Le Weekend?"

In the winter,
The buses are overheated,
So winter coats become furnaces.
I am rendered,
Ash and smoke.
Nothing new there too.

Missed my stop
Writing this,
Happened before,
Hope it happens again.

Came  home to the customary
What's new,
So I said
Not too much
But,
Somebody decided that ole
Poem I wrote two years on,
Should be the
Poem of the Day.

That's sweet, my love ,
You surely will be
Insufferably happy and
Impossible to live with
for at least the next
five minutes.

So take the trash out,
Before we leave,
Then pick a place to dine,
For not a thing in the fridge to eat.

So to the compactor,
I strode, thinking Shakespeare
Didn't have to do this, I'll bet,
But started smiling,
Ear to ear,
A ***** eating
Big ole
Grinning,
Nonetheless!

Thinking,
The question is,
How does it feel,
This poem of the day
Accolade,
The answer,
of course!

It feels, like,
I am,

**I am just like {you, man}

i remember the first time bryn brought a boy for christmas
his name was chris
and we had to distinguish between him and my cousin chris
so we called him gay chris
because he had lots of pockets
and he always looked better than my cousins
who hardly ever tried to look presentable.
i remember last christmas
how damon gave elise
sweaters from a thrift shop and fleetwood mac records
and how happy she was.
i never wanted to be allie from the notebook,
and i never wanted you to be noah.
in the 8th grade,
hidden between shelves of a torn-down library where i'd sit for hours,
was a short, thick book with pages of romanticized post-it notes
and the smell of sawdust.
dash and lily's book of dares
was all the things i'd been dreaming about.
the first-glance feelings in the middle of new york,
the warm feeling melting through your bones with an even warmer drink.
i've always wanted a chris
or a shaina
or a natasha.
i've always imagined thanksgiving day going differently for once in my life.
when my uncle asks me if i'm texting my boyfriend,
i want to say "yes, actually" and i wanted to find a boy
to take to my grandmother's house.
i wanted to show him
how tristan would pay me to go sneak him cookies,
and the way we fought over couches.
but now we took all the couches out of the basement,
and i think someone else is living in that house.
but there's still thanksgiving,
there's still an extra seat at the table,
and i'm not sure but i think justin is bringing maya this year.
so when it is my turn to go around the house and say hello to everyone,
and my uncle asks, "how many boyfriends do you have?" teasingly,
i can smile and say "just one"
and it can be you.