I cannot compete with your jealousy, your anger, your insecurity.
My love has no where to rest, no place of purity.
You have tainted our love, our memories, our life, with your self made delusions.
Your mind has brought chaos with these insane intrusions.
I'll always love you, forever, or more
But you must set me free from this torture, this grief at my core.
I'll be here for you, when you need me, no matter what
But your accusations tear at me like the deepest cut.
My love is purely unconditional
Our love quite untraditional
But I'll be here
For you
Deep in your heart
Always
Forever
This is where I start

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.

Why did you have to pull me in like this?
Why couldn't you be like every other girl?
Benign? Impermanent?

You were untraditional, unorthodox,
You became air where there was none,
Water where there was only dust

And then you told me that you were sick,
And nothing brings two people in like illness,
All of a sudden everything changed

I've never felt like much of a father figure,
But ******* you made me care like one,
Probably why it's still so agonizing

And I'm still tasked with laughable ideas
Like "letting go" and "moving on"
And I know that there's no alternative

There is no room for me in your life,
You've set sail for new waters,
And I'm simply left to drown

My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.

My poems hide in board games while camping.

My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.

My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.

My poems hide in compliments from strangers.

My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.

My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.

My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.

My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.

My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.

My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.

My poems hide in my relationship with God.

My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.

My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.

Standing at the edge of uncertainty
at the threshold of our lives
we stare numbly down the hall of opportunity
As youths every door wide open
As young adults many are locked shut
closed.
Rooms never to be explored,
Yet as ederly members of society
they could all open again
after the one thing we all fear
An experience of which there is no return
it's odd how life works
So as children take advantage
of an and all opportunities
and as young adults try to hold open as many doors as you can
Don't let society or pressure slam shut
Love or hope or untraditional carreers
and as an ederly man or woman
always look forward
never back
as your doors will all re-open

If a taste could be liberation
then all I want is you.
Freedom is the essence
of you're being and
I just wanna be up in it.

Chills down my spine
sweat across my chest
that's your love coming
through my pores.

It's like...
clarity with no
Claritin-D
I can breathe just fine.

I've never known myself
before, a feeling
I didn't think was true.
But I'm changing.

Wipe my slate clean
because all I want is you.
A little untraditional
but I've fallen for a queen.

A taste was my liberation
in an essence...
you allowed me
to be free, to just
let it- let me
just be.

when it comes
to art
I always find myself
gravitating
to the *****,
the make-shift,
and the
simple

art,
I think,
should
be about life
not about
“high”
life

that is why I read Bukowski
and admire street art
and lawn art made of
corrugated metal
and adorn my walls
with miss-matched posters
and write about things
I do instead of about
things that mean
anything

art,
I think,
shouldn’t need
to be explained

so when it comes
to art,
I always find myself
seeming quite pretentious
in an untraditional
way

the way in which a teenager
scorns main-steam music

the way art critics ostracize
their ex-lover’s work

the way I refuse to write sonnets
and write about cereal instead

I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem

when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”

I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head

and in truth,
I don’t believe
it

I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk

I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all

I’m a kid

they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame


and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration

but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture

I stand aside while
standing atop

I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt

I count all the poems
I’ve written

over five-hundred,
I chuckle

suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad

untraditional

Christmas

A time for family
Love
Sharing
And gathering

This year
It was an
Untraditional Christmas.

It was had to work around the one present under the tree for each of us

It was odd and completely opposite
Of a normal persons perspective
On this holiday.

But honestly to me
I knew the struggle my parents were facing
And it didn't bother me

Just the one gift under the tree
Was probably the best thing
I could have.

The thought put into that present
Set me to ease and not frett.

I imagine a perfect Christmas waking up to the sunshine on your heavy eyelids.
I imagine a perfect Christmas racing to the tree, slipping and sliding in your warm fuzzy slippers, to see how many bundles surrounded the tree.
I imagine a perfect Christmas, a Christmas unlike mine.

Now, I’m not saying I had a terrible Christmas, but it was untraditional to say the least.

As a child, I felt so special.
I had one of those blessings from an event the exact opposite of that.
I had two Christmases, one with my mother and one with my father.
Christmas Eve was always my mother’s and Christmas Day was always my father’s.
When I was little, my mom would tell me that she called Santa every year to tell him to come to my grandmas house, where we did presents, a night early.
Imagine, as a child, thinking that you were so incredibly special that THE Santa Clause, came to your house an ENTIRE night early.
I actually felt like the queen.
My mother and I had Christmas on Christmas Eve at night, and let me tell you, seeing the presents under the tree and have to wait TWELVE HOURS to open them, that was a child’s hell.
Then when I awoke in the morning, I had to get up and leave to go to my father’s.
My father got every Christmas, which I never thought was fair, but what do kids know?
Right?

So yes I had two Christmases
So yes I got ‘more’ presents,
But now as I grow up
I miss the perfect Christmas
I imagine this perfect Christmas.
A Normal Christmas.

Cuz I know that a mind is a terrible thing sometimes… the way it can turn on ya…. I sit here tryin not to judge…  but  can’t help but see in the corner of my eye… and oh no… tell myself that I don’t … see her face… all screnched up… lookin like a car done parked on her foot… all screnched up… lookin like she got a helluva Charlie- Horse in her left *** cheek… as she tilts her head and digs in her scalp… diggin like she tryin to get through… to herself… in some newly discovered way… and keep on diggin… and keep on diggin…  til she finally come up with somethin… and right there… in our too crowded office… she… with relish… and with gusto… in slow motion seem like…  deposits her newly found treasure… Into. Her. Mouth… and with a loud and wet POP… then with a satisfied sigh… finishes her memo like this is nothing... no thing at all... a regular occurance… leavin me right now starin straight ahead… writin a poem... and "blessin-the-goddess"glad... that it ain’t me... partakin of… untraditional snacks… cuz life can be rough and cold like sidewalk concrete in winter… and if you hit the wrong way... sidewalk concrete in winter... somethin just might break... and obviously there is a... not so readily obvious problem here… so I decide that… I ain’t one to judge…  just act like I don’t see… and  finish my own **** memo…