Maybe my writing
Will improve
When strewn over
Blue lined graph paper,
Tiny boxes,
Coaxing out order,
Perhaps even
Clarifying boundaries
Between crazed truth,
And detrimental lies.

The grid putting
Poem in context,
Poem like graph,
Displaying
Levels of THC
Depression
Number of Kisses
Tears Cried
Outliers of secrets uttered.
Box and whisker plot
Displaying anxiety,
Skewed data toward extremes.

No.
Linear writing would
Reveal the chaos inside.
I can't fit the poems
To the squares.
A graph can't really cry
The way a person can.
There's a losing feeling
Etched in pen
On a harshly graded
Parcel of mathematical quizzing
That a poem has no place to
Instill in me.

And no one would
Be able to read my work
The way they tell you to show it.
My poems have no color coding.
Definition between data
Becomes hazy as
Layers of black are added
In empty,
All encompassing anger.
And I smoke while I write tonight,
Haze growing,
Lines wobbled,
And I may have put a poem
On a piece of graph paper
But it's nothing like the math homework
That stays in my backpack.

They once asked
If we looked forward
To trainings
Well I know
I do

On top of the
Cold regularity
That calms
On top of the countless
Hours endured
Under the sun
Like statues

There is one thing
I look forward
To
That is meeting
The lot of
You

Twice
A week
Two blessings
In five days
Of chaos

The seventh batch 
The remaining five
Somehow
During those two
Or three
Hours of training
You guys somehow
Manage to take
All
That weight
Away

Introducing me
To new sound worlds
Teaching me
How to dance
Or just watching
And listening 
To your amusing
Conversations
On all sorts of things

So
Open

Carefree

Not
Judgmental

No comparisons

And always
Each time
Each session
You'll never fail
To pull out
A genuine
Smile
Or
Laugh
From deep inside
This Abyss
One that cannot
Be contained
Or restrained

Or just simply
Watching the
Plain
Innocence
With all your kiddish
Knick-knacks
Just for a little while
It banishes
All that
Complexity

And through
All the gruelling camps
All the scoldings
All the punishments
The yelling
The pain
The standing
We still stuck through

You guys 
May not know
How much it means
To me
To have such a platoon
Keeping me going
Through the tough times
When I really want 
To give up
And give in

But just seeing 
The five of us
Huddled together
In the smallest
Circle
Making small laughs
Small jokes
The complaints
The whining
It somehow makes things
Feel

Right

Pulling up that
Swinging end
Of the graph
Into a positive
Curve
At the end
Of the day