Dissatisfaction is what you feel when you
Start to type out a message to him, and
Your fingers are trying to move to express what you're feeling...
But you have nothing to say.
So you close the window.
And turn off your computer.
And go to bed.

Sunday is gloomy
But monday is something much worse
Monday I wake up and dreams turn to ashes
The spell you put on me
My dear is a curse

All the rosy pictures I drew in my head
Are bleeding out my eyes
And turning my world red

There is no yellow brick road
To bring me back home
I’m out in the fog and the mist all alone

Sunday is magic
Compared to the tragic
Transformation from night
Into day

The dark is a safety on which I rely
When the daylight reveals all the details in sharpness
That contrasts the dullness I feel when the lights are away
And I’m not awake

There’s nothing but a maze in the traffic
As I look out my window to peels from their horns
It’s a cacophonic orchestra funeral march
And it’s bidding me throw myself down

Our future gloomy uncertainty,
Uncharted as the rolling sea.
Doubtful monsters slither in the water
To ****** at our feet and
Drag us beneath the deep.
Sinking and separated, we're whipped
By the pale winds of indebted and petty misery.
Never to return, never to return
To a place we used to know
Or to whom we used to be.
Seeking refuge like heathens in heather,
We friends meet again,
(If only in thought or misty memory),
And band together in stormy weather,
Clasping hands tight.
Incessantly pressing
Onward, guessing everything might be alright.
Even in different boats, 'long different shores,
And under unclear skies...
We find each other under the same moon.
Floating in the same ocean,
Traveling by the same wind.

This is a letter on account of that poem
You left in the hallway.
I was walking by, and I saw it on the floor
All torn into pieces, and well
I'm a sucker for puzzles.
Two nights ago, I spent almost two hours
Painstakingly placing the pieces in particular places on
The looseleaf
Well, I recreated your poem like the deepest lyrical anthropologist.
It's all glued and taped together now, and what an irony that it was only
Love poetry from ninth to twelfth grade.
The lines are not that bad, but a little trite,
Someday, the girlfriend and boyfriend you used to call yourselves
Will grow up and away and apart.
And I will never ask either of you why
You left your poem on the hallway floor in little shreds.
I could look you up, find you, I have your name after all...
But I would rather leave the story up to my imagination.
This is merely me expressing my appreciation for the puzzle
You left on the linoleum for me to solve.

Surely, there is a word somewhere for the feeling of being
On the brink of creative explosion
But letting the feeling fester and die away, barely acknowledged,
While rain drops fall across the windowpane.

when i told people in my first block class at school, a science class, that my favorite movie was straight outta compton, they all laughed.
and i guess i understood why. im a little white girl that was wearing a skirt that day. okay, so thats nice.
i guess i cant like things because i live in a pretty nice neighborhood and im white and im a girl.
but guess what.
i like straight outta compton because i understand the people part of it. like oh god.
i used to love going to the movies because i could escape my reality, which ***** more than people know because i dont tell them things sometimes, but i havent enjoyed a movie in years because every reality in my life has completely taken over and defeated me.
but maybe i like straight outta compton so much because for the first time in years, i actually connected with something that felt real to me.
yeah ok, its just a movie.
but watching the movie, i got to meet these characters and they became my friends. i dont care about how lame that is.
this is a poetry site. look at all the angst. and my gosh, look at that fourth wall i just broke.
ice cube is my friend. ren is my friend. yella too. all my friends, and i watched them get shoved to the ground outside their own recording studio.
because they were black.
and sitting in the movie theatre seat in my nice neighborhood in my white skin, i cried.
i cried my eyes out, because those actors onscreen were telling me a story in the personas of these new friends of mine.
i cried when eazy found out he had aids. just when nwa was about to get back together.
it was like watching a personal potential victory slip right between my fingers. it felt so close.
and i watched his body shake in agony. eazy cried. he had months to live.
in my white skin in my nice movie seat in my nice neighborhood where ive never had to watch anyone die, i cried because in that moment, all of it was real to me.
you cant explain something like that, not even to your friends.
in my nice neighborhood where there arent streetwalkers and people doing coke and peoples houses getting rammed down by the cops, my friends dont want to listen to nwa because of all the cussing.
and i think, there is so much that you miss if you initially reject it because you dont like it, because you think that it hurts your character.
hear no evil, see no evil.
you dont want the cussing floating around in your head.
its bad. its sinful.
but my gosh, its only words.
i dont think that eazy wanted the doctors diagnosis in his head.
i dont think that he wanted to deal coke and get almost caught by the police. i think he wanted to stay in the safe neighborhood with me in the nice movie seats crying about some other character on the screen that had their dreams crushed and their life taken.
i dont think that ice cube wanted to be taken advantage of by his manager.
i dont think i would like that either.
i dont like that people think that my friend, ice cube, isnt as smart as the little white girl in her biotechnology class. people might look down on him because hes black, or because gangsta rap made him do it, or because he didnt come from the nice neighborhood with the movie theater that i was crying in because my friends were being beaten.
maybe im crazy for saying this, but....i think maybe the movies arent supposed to always entertain us or make political statements or educate us or wow us with light shows.
maybe theyre meant to give us new perspectives we dont get because we live in nice neighborhoods with our movie theaters and our friends nwa that dont get to live here because they came from compton and got thrown in jail because they used their right to freedom of speech or got aids and died.
my friends werent all good. they did drugs and abused women, and im not okay with that, but i love them anyway, yknow?
because theres just one type of folks. not real or fictional, not actors and audience, not black and white.
just folks.
just friends.

Lately, I was feeling like I was going through life on autopilot.
Not really seeing, not really feeling.
Barely scratching the surface,
I was cold and numb.
My eyes were open, but nothing was being seen,
Nothing was registering or being recognized.
I was hearing all the little background noises, but I was so used to them that everything beautiful became dust.
Every voice was white noise.
I felt used, wasted, worthless, unclean.
Like I had broken all the little laws that keep my world revolving,
I was spinning, I was downward-spiraling,
I was fried.
But something was shaking me and my heart was breaking me
And I woke up on a fault line.
I woke up.
I woke up.
I'm awake.
And I see everything.
I feel everything.
In technicolor.
I'm not sure how, and I don't know how, and I don't know why at all.
I don't know why now, I don't know and I don't understand.
But I'm awake again, and I'm walking on purpose.
I'm breathing voluntarily.
I'm smiling because, somehow, I rediscovered how.
Do I understand?
Not even a little bit.
But,
I'm awake again.