if you can be anything
be kind.

we are all just humans.
we laugh at cute cat videos,
hum little songs,
eat raw cookie dough and laugh when it makes one giant cookie mass.

life is made of these moments.
people deserve so much love.
how often do we remind our families we love them?
is it often enough?
how many days do we think only of ourselves.
human nature is beautiful and terrible and stunning.

somehow hate seeps through the cracks of time and makes us bitter and angry.

and it's fine to be angry.
just don't let it consume you.
remember sometimes that there
are old folks out there who still tease each other,
there are babies who giggle when you play peekaboo,
there are dogs with slobbery tongues who need head scratches,
there are children spinning and laughing when they fall.
humams are important.
we are special.

even people we say we hate.
i thought i hated my mom
but i know she cares
and i have seen her run when she thought i was in danger.
i have seen her break into tears at getting a DUI and trying to explain to a child that she might lose her job.

being human is tough.
our hearts harden trying to protect ourselves but
we end up locking people out.

in trying to avoid being hurt
we hurt the ones we love.

please never forget that each person you meet has more than just facet.
people are stunningly complex.
don't judge someome til you've walked two moons in their moccasins.

humans are worth so much.
i don't know what i am saying
but i mean it with all of me.
i love you.
you deserve so much.

strained is
supposed to be
a word
for pasta
not
relationships.

is it normal
to stand in my bathroom
for ten minutes
at 2:20 a.m.
pepper spray in hand
door locked
listening for footsteps
waiting for my breathing
to become less ragged
so i can run into my bedroom
check my closet
and under my bed
for monsters that only
come from my head?

is it normal to stare into the mirror
crying
wondering if that's really you in it
because you don't recognize
your own reflection
after checking behind
the shower curtain at least four times?
there's a reason i never want
to live alone.

is it normal that
even when i am alone
it fees like i am being watched
cameras, mirrors, windows of houses and people on the street.
they're waiting to laugh at me
or ****** me
or kidnap me
or stare at me
the list goes on.

everyone is out to get me
which i know isn't true
but that doesn't make
the feeling
go away.

the hens
have raised their fowl fists,
protested the pecking order,
debated the Cuckoo Clucks Clan,
and started a coup in the coop.
they have a bird's eye view from their fort,
truly an eggcelent perch to reside in while they gather resources and
duck when enemies fire.
joining is a nestcessary evil to end the corruption.
so, my dear,
please don't chicken out.

Rue thy feeble fate.
Fear the day when thine own eyes
Fail to see beyond thy hand.
Requiem for the rest-easies such as Thyself shall not come as welcome
Praise, but as fire and brimstone,
Blood from the grimy grindstones of
The weary working, ready to rise
And crush all unworthy opposition
With their hilts of red-hot rage,
Raising swords of liberty to the heavens and cutting down the opression that has stilted their air.

Weep for this is thy fate:
Thy death means justice for those who Have been defeated countless times,
Under a blooming, burning sky defeats Pile up like stars, simmering, waiting to Become supernovas and take every puny Universe down in their own glorious Descent, like
Icarus to the sun, a sweeter fall could not Exist on this lonely planet,
Into the unforgiving waters of victory.

Justice for those angry folk who by merit Have earned their own place, not by Some system that hands it to them, but By grit and toil alone,
By the fierce madness that is
Existing and not completely
Giving in to the ruin of being human, Following the words that
A wiser man than I spoke, that life is Struggle, that the only constant in this Life is the pain that all of us try to ignore In the futile attempt to block out the Tragedies that haunt us daily.

Face thy fears, coward.
Thou miserable wretch can't look thyself In the mirror, but can claim that we as a Species have hope for peace on Earth and Goodwill for all.
What dost thou know of goodwill? When didst thou give a single moment of thought to the happiness of anyone but thyself and thine selfish  avaricious interests?
Thou shan't claim to know what is holy and just, yet scourge the very pious people that thou imitates; thou shan't slaughter the devout on a temple whose bricks are molded from hypocrisy and deceit.

Rue thy feeble fate,
Because thou deserveth every blow, every cry of mockery, every disgusted eye and every hideous pitiful moan that thy gravestone will inspire, and even Dante himself could not have imagined the flaming of the hellish unredeeming pyre that will be thy afterlife;
rue thy fate for no morals, no intercessions, no pleas or entreaties to be spared from the filth and maggotry that thou hast built thy very house upon canst save thee now.

hollow shells.
am I talking about
kids
or
bullets?

trust no one

helicopters give them panic attacks.
am I talking about
kids
or
war veterans?

is there a difference these days?

this blood spatter on the walls
will keep getting painted over
anyway.

when we speak of courage,
we talk of those long dead.
the heroes
the martyrs
the saints.

but I've seen courage.
it's in the fight.
it's in the picket signs at marches
held up like pleas to the heavens.

it's in the kids who threw themselves in front of a gun
and lived.
dying bravely means
going
down
fighting.

fight until your lungs give out.
fight until your knuckles are ******.
fight until your knees are trembling.
and then,
keep fighting.

i like seeing people when they're sleepy.
completely real
unfiltered humans,
yawning in their baggy nightclothes,
worn blankets wrapped like shawls,
and soft smiles
as they claim they aren't exhausted,
no,
their eyes are just tired.
their low mumbling gives them away every time, though.

people are wondrously beautiful in a
natural, peaceful state.

i feel like i am going to throw up.
***** anxiety
through the holes
moths made in my stomach.
we are going to die.
you can either
ignore it
or fear the day it happens.
no matter what,
it keeps coming.
death is an ocean
death is a desert
death is a city you can't
get
out
of.
death is lack of change.
maybe if i try
running around
like a chicken
post-guillotine
ill be able to avoid it.
or at the least
stop thinking about it
or anything really
for a while.

but
probably not.

My bunny
does not comprehend
the vast size of the
universe.
My bunny does not
ask questions like
"Why do we exist?"
My bunny is a simple
creature.
But it seems so much
more peaceful
not to wonder these things,
not to stay up late
wracking your brain
at the mysteries of life,
that sometimes,
I wish I was
a bunny too.
Is ignorance truly bliss?
If I was ignorant,
I wouldn't have to ask this.

i don't believe in anything fully
and i don't believe in nothing fully

how does one define themself?
no set ideals, no morals, no concrete idea of what the hell i'm doing.

making a decision is terrifying when you don't know which side you prefer.

sometimes i don't eat or sleep because i don't recognise the feelings as hunger or pain or tiredness. just white noise in the back of my mind.

i am a stranger to myself. these roads i travel are blurred and fractured.
giving myself an identity makes me feel like i have to be something.

and all i know how to be is nothing.

Wake up with a jump and a start.
This isn't just prose,
this is an art.
To weave your stories, through and
through, with
broken pen and missing shoe.
With mixed conviction,
perfect diction,
convicts swoon at your traditions.

As long as you believe
the lines make sense, they'll breathe
your soul and lack pretense.
Self-defense from knives to words and songs to birds,
soaring
o'er the roar and o'er the dives,
through the skyscraper's windows, break a floor and seek to strive.

Words are not just words,
I've heard many a stern voice
attacking a sturdy herd of
wavering wordsmiths who have
forgetten that they have a choice.
Alliteration counts as craftful creation
and the tale of poets shows it: these
sentences are paintings of a nation.
Decorating time and space
and all its stations of making a
stand.

You're a poet,
perfectly pathological,
hurting through rose- colored
opticals and bleeding for something
beautifuly better, just getting lost calls
but keep searching for the right letters; don't let the sands of time make you hate your written desert.
It's worth your weary hands.

Been itchin' to step on the toes
of some politicians, ditchin'
the sneakers and hitchin'
the anger, an armor of agression,
clothes of choler, cursing the
contempt-ridden regressions of the system.

Edgy kids turn into violent adults,
You have the right to remain violent, folks, 'long as you're getting something done and not lounging lazily,
waiting for things to change by
themselves, putting your drive on a shelf, hazily remembering what you actually believed - go **** right off and leave.

Stick to your guns.
I'm so sick of saints and nuns advocating for peace. Peace is a piece of giving up belief. "Friendly Negotiations" to talk you out of your convinction, turn convicts into martyrs and we'll see which side you really trust.
How can you believe that peace will will solve problems when it just causes feelings to be pent up?
People are competitive, wanting all that opulence in the posthumous, and peace is a puzzling problem, not a solution.
Peace would be basic if human nature wasn't so acidic, mixed with the tension of a complex society, your peace is about to burn a hole in the walls of government.
The only peace for me is death.
Ideals are nothing without people fighting for them with every last breath.
Go out and scream as long as you're making noise.
Rip limits to shreds, and raise your ******* voice.

it may seem
overdone
to write about love

but once you have it
it is impossible
not to want to share.

love is a cookie sample
at a grocery store
unexpected and surprisingly delicious.

love is a street dog
fed better than its owner
scruffy and fearless and full of hope.

love is what you thought you lost
but like a lucky penny
tends to appear on its own.

slowly
surely
quickly

i am falling
but it is the most glorious fall
in my life

and when i hit the ground
the asphalt will taste just as sweet
as the descent.

it may be overdone to write about love
but i couldn't care less today.
you are worth all my words.

the sun will die
but not for a long time
not before our own infinities
collapse into the absurdity and
the unimportance of it
all.

the sun will die
but not before goodwill
closes its doors one last time.
so long ****** $1 books and
memories of old people couches
that smelled like **** and beer and your great-grandfather's
apartment.

yeah, the sun will die
but not before those
kids who used to pick on you
and that ******* on the train
who got kicked in the ***** for making lewd comments in the quiet car
become worm food for
more decent creatures.

the sun will ******* die
so be glad.
everything ends including
all us *******,
us heavy breathers and
old ladies and ex-cons and alcoholics and plain humans.

the sun will die
but we got other things to worry about
more relative than all the others
so we may as well
enjoy
the
wait.

i don't want to die.
just not exist for a while.
sleeping but
the world forgets about you
for as long as you lay down.
a quiet body
in an empty room.

i am running from my problems
but i
run in
spirals.

my body still aches.
when my mother hugs me
i tremble.

i don't like being touched anymore.
it reminds me of your hands
like spiders crawling
under my clothes.

i was so small
and you were so much bigger.
get your voice out of my ears.
saying
'Let it happen.'

in seven years, all the cells in a body
are replaced
which means
in six years there will be no part of me
that you ever touched.

i am counting the days
until then.

i like bugs.
they remind me
that life is important
on a small scale.
even the most frustrating
are beneficial to nature and
our ecosystem wouldn't be the same
without them.

except mosquitoes.
they can **** right off,
the ***** bloodsucking *******.

your eyes
are the ocean

salty tears
are its waves

bitter storms
are your temper

and lonely shipwrecks
are your rage.

my eyes
are a forest

feathered lashes
are its oaks

shady glades
are my sadness

and weary deer
are my hopes.

if it appears that
my poems lack conviction,
it's because they do.

my words: white noise on
a radio brain, and i
can't change the station.

i want my poems
to be profound,
beautiful,
meaningful.
but i
also
try to write about life
which is
none of those things.

an anarchist, just
a person who wants to de-
-stroy the government.

there's a difference be-
- tween letting the world burn and
setting it aflame.

nicotine
or ****
or both
in my dad's bathroom.
on his second wife, thousandth girlfriend and fourth kid.

four kids
all with different moms
makes for an interesting bunch
if you have the patience for them.

although

i would not call
two holes in our apartment wall
and sore knuckles
patience.
but
to each
their own
i guess.

it must've taken some patience
to drive to vegas
marry a girl
you'd known for 4 months.
attachment issues?
on a seven year old me?
hahahahahahahahaha

stepmom #2? #8?
faces blend together
names turn into
michelledominiquetatijillzhaoaletia

on your good days
of type one diabetic balance
and anarchy signs in the kitchen
i love you

but on your bad days
i love you to death

my mind is asleep;
even though i am moving
i am still a corpse.

i see the ships pass by
but only when the waves
don't cover my eyes.
i remember nothing
and my only friends
are clouds and stars.

the name of the boat i was on
is always on the tip
of my tongue
but it slips away
with the tides
as do i.

fish have started to nibble on me.
it's a strange sensation,
not unpleasant.
i know what that means, though.
i know i am dead.

i'm not scared
just relaxed
floating on the water
smelling the salt
feeling the breeze

i am lonely though
and a little cold
i must have had a family.
what happened
to all the other lifeboats?

aha! i remember the name of my boat.
i think it was called the Titan...
no, i'm pretty sure it was
the Titanic.

regret
comes crashing like the tides
all at once
pulling me under.
i gasp for air but there is only saltwater and tears.

i have a morbid fear of open ocean
maybe because it would mean
being alone
with my thoughts
that circle like sharks
and showers that
sting like jellyfish.

kayaks of self- preservation
shatter against the rocks.
there is no saving me.
let me sink
or i will drag you down with me.
please
leave me to drown.

whisper your name
until it is meaningless.
shatter yourself on the stones,
sweep it up,
and mold yourself whole again.

this is existing.
this is engraving your soul
on the walls of time.
this is learning to

fall

but

not

to

crash.

the word for not changing is
death
and the word for constant change is chaos
and the word for swinging wildly between the two is
life

i sleep in a house
but dream of a home
-

i miss what it was like.
where did i go wrong?
can we calculate the precise moment that a building collapses?
can we remember the exact moment that our lives crumble around us?
-

the longer you hold on
the more it hurts to let go.

do you remember the car rides?
getting yelled at for being too loud,
and still laughing despite it.
we were young.

the accident made me so much older,
I think my hair started graying overnight.
you would've laughed at that.
if you could have.

you are going to be young forever,
because brother,
the date on your grave
stays the same.

you treat me like a child.

"Here, it looks too heavy for you. I'll take it."

"You can't be a priest, you're a girl."

"Shouldn't you know how to cook and clean? What if your husband doesn't know how to?"

you say these and all I hear is
YOUAREWEAKYOUAREWEAKYOUAREWEAKYOUAREWEAKYOUAREWEAK

i keep waiting for you to let me prove myself but you never even give me a chance.
i am not just a rag doll for the world to play house with.

just wait until i show you what i can really do with my hands:

strangle you.

whether the rouge on my lips is lipstick or blood is yet to be decided.

she waits at the door
for him to come home.
it has been so long.
and yet
she keeps her post.

if she leaves for a second she might miss the flash of a uniform, a crooked grin, a letter home.
baby teeth knocked out like gravestones after a storm.

like the gravestone the telegram in her hand may imply.
she has not opened it.
she has not-
can not-
will not-
open it.

the telegram sits
and she sits
and the clock sits
(mockingly)

and her son sits.
the closest to his homeland he will ever get is
the flag blanketed over him.

and still

she waits at the door.

all we are:
lonely hearts
looking for anything
to bridge the gap.

oh, medusaesque
****** blade with a diamond hilt
clean cut house with padded walls
storm hidden in the cloudy valley.

red-laced bottle of pride
running fast as your legs can go to keep away the
terrors.

busy is a lifestyle to
fiercly avoid the memories.
you can keep them one step behind
as long as you don't ever stop.

sometimes i think you're eight out of nine lives away from dying on the front step.

but
this cat
always lands on its feet.

oh, lost childhood
innocent, sweet, and vain
i traded away my maidenhood
for a life of listless pain.

although reckless naievity
assuredly slipped away
so did the warm festivity
of existing without shame.

no longer can bedside fables
enchant a wonderous mind.
for i have traded my maidenhood
and left all past behind.

you always think
that the sun
is so much brighter
than you will ever be.
that your soft, sleepy smile
can't compare
to its gentle rays.
that it is everpresent
and stronger than you,
a blinding charm,
a stunning light.
have you forgotten that the
sun must always
fall before it rises?
don't you remember
the desert wastes
and scorching summers?
the mightiest of gods
are not
infallible.