i've been
immersing myself in films
to escape the present
but

(disney's "Hercules" reminds me of you
i watched it three times
this week
just to catch glimpses of you

ten minutes into "Captain America"
a mix of salt and water created streams on my cheeks
accompanied by silent sobs
how could a fictional character
so beautifully
capture your essence?)

it seems i've
managed to trap myself in my past
that is you

"have a unique morning!"
the train conductor announces
after each stop

thank you showing such cheerfulness
but no thanks
i haven't slept in over 24 hours
spent them chugging out an essay worth 40% of my grade
another worth 20
my printer was especially  uncooperative
my bus was 20 minutes late
and now I'm holding back anxious tears
how many points does he take off for late papers again?
5
10
15?
thank you, sir.
but no thanks
my morning is unique enough to last me about 5 weeks

(1994-)
perhaps
(1994-2012)
is more accurate

but our world quantifies our lives by the number of heart beats
of inhale-exhales
so let me ask you this, World:
you can revive my heart with electric shocks
force air into my collapsing lungs,
but what can you do for my soul?
nothing

and so i claim the right
to write:
(1994-2012)

someday
maybe today
tomorrow
fifty years from now
this collection of poems will cease to grow

when such a day arrives
will someone please sign me off
but first:
(1994-20XX)

There is a town by the name of Betuty.
Many do quite envy,
For it is what they cannot be:
A beacon upon a hill for all to see.

Colorful houses, none too plain.
Never even a drop of rain.
Yet all the harvests do go well,
As if under a spell.  

I do not envy it.
It is a frightful place to be.

Its’ citizens dance around a fire
screeching and laughing as they go.
Many times there are echoing screams,
of people like me
when caught
lingering.

Watching.

I cannot seem to get enough.

The night is my cape
a bush my refuge.

A misstep.
A broken twig.

They notice.

She knows too much.

I run and run and run from this town named Betuty.
I promise myself to never come back.

I never leave.

"i'm not a poet"
i grinned sheepishly, in apology, and refused to meet his gaze
"i know, jo. no one here is. just give us a metaphor for love"
irritated
i complied, spewed out cliched nonsense
he chose his next victim

but you see, professor, i don't think you understood
beyond the exterior of (unintentional) rebellious sarcasm
with four words, i was telling you
"i am no wordsmith
i cannot beautify my pain
create meaning from this chaotic mess of a world
i do not know love
death, tragedy, true loss"

now, do you see?
"i'm not a poet"

you once told me why birds bless us with an early warning of morning
it's been so long, i've forgotten
when i hear the birds in the morning, i still think of you