i. you took the clouds
and dyed them, used droplets of food coloring
so the sky would almost always
look like it was in mid-sunset, aching for the moon.


ii. tomato vines, tomato vines
tangled on you
and you are not even mine.


iii. songs that stopped being beautiful after you left me


iv. they named cottage cheese after the
first place we watched the food
network and
pretended to make a casserole for our family of six.

The physical act of putting pen to paper
is something that I try to avoid.
Because
It makes my wrist hurt and
I collect a fine coating of graphite on my hand and
I'm bound to mess up at least once
And the eraser leaves those smudges
That make the perfectionist in me shriek with displeasure.

It's not until I force myself,
journal in hand,
To sit down and move the thoughts out of my head
That I remember why I love writing.
It takes this jumbled mess of
feelings
words
thoughts
And turns them into something.
It turns me into something.
And it's worth all the
messy hands
sore wrists
and mistakes in the world.

The quickest way to fall apart
Is to pick up the broken pieces of yourself
So we hold ourselves together
And we climb out of our beds
Every morning, we arise and meet the day
Holding our guts in our hands
Wearing scarred hearts on our sleeves

The hardest things in life
Are the little ones
But a thousand pinpricks bleed us dry
And the moments move so swiftly
We feel the pressure in our skulls
Listening to the voices of our fears and doubts
Anxieties clawing to get out

The strongest ones I know
Are the ones who had to fight alone
Nobody else could see their demons
Or carry the weight of the world
Which rested squarely on their shoulders
Dying would be so easy a thing for us
Living well is the real challenge we must face

the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me

I'm not a poet
I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen
with thoughts running through my head
like gazelles in the plains of Africa
and I'm just waiting for a lion
to come swallow them up
and finally give me a good
idea
a good idea that rests on your
mouth like a Listerine patch
and comes out in a cool minty breath
a good idea that is so
easily shared amongst the masses
and is of the ability to make them
cry
laugh
smile
think
but how can I make them think
when I can't even think of a good
idea
besides, who is this 'them'
that I'm trying to please?
and how can I please 'them'?
with a notebook full of
scribbled out sentences
and torn out pages
both results of my rage
and yes, I write a lot about writers block
because writers block is so evident to me
and I see a whole lot of words
like butterflies in a field
and I'm without a net to catch them
and I just stand there staring
wishing I could piece them all together
but, if I write about writers block often
then is writers block something to write about
therefore I don't have writers block?
I don't know
I'm not a poet
I'm just a teenagers with writers block
just trying to catch butterflies

-Slang

but first you were everything
and then everything
and then complication
grew like how on a fig tree
a fig
might not grow.