𝐵𝓊𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝓎,
𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓎
I feel best in my strawberry dress
It's stupid, really
all glee and smile
gee, I acted like a child
It's stupid, really
I thought of nothing
but of my love for you
Godd-mn,
𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦,
𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭?

And if it weren't for those times
where impediment
was all I can speak of,  
𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍,
𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛
synthesizing
my weathered hyacinth
into a 𝕘𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕕𝕒𝕗𝕗𝕠𝕕𝕚𝕝
resided by the lake
of your
evergreen field

Be it 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙, 𝘍𝘪𝘵𝘻𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘥,
𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒, or 𝚁𝚞𝚖𝚒
No sonnets on earth
is as beautiful
is as grandeur
as God-made poetry;
You.

nineteen in little more than a week:
already time slips through my fingers,

days trickling through the cracks
in the sidewalk, leaving

me rubbing my fingers raw against
seams in the parched pavement, wondering

when the rain will seep back up. I heard time
runs faster as you grow older,

an ever-tightening spiral of minutes days
decades blinks of eyes

and I wonder how I will bear it
when even now I am grasping

desperately for anything in reach,
anything to slow the locomotive

down, and all I get is red-scraped palms
from slapping past tree trunks,

arms too skinny-weak to pull, to hold any
branches as the train whisks me by

by-by-bye

I am turning eighteen yet I still don’t know how to be myself. I am turning eighteen yet I don’t want to put my dream on the shelf. I am turning eighteen yet I’m terrified to express my opinion. I am turning eighteen yet the things I haven’t done are a million. I am turning eighteen yet I don’t know how to talk to strangers. I am turning eighteen yet I’ve never been exposed to all of this world's dangers. I am turning eighteen yet I’ve never believed in myself. I am turning eighteen yet I’ve never seen the movie elf. I am turning eighteen yet I've never been with you. I am turning eighteen yet I never have a clue. I am turning eighteen yet I feel like I'm fifteen. I am turning eighteen yet I’ve never learned a routine. I am turning eighteen yet I still sleep with my teddy. I am turning eighteen but I don’t think i am ready.

I impatiently waited tables
trying to earn enough money
to keep my apartment
filled with cheap beer
and expensive drugs.

There wasn’t much else to do
in that stuffy little town
with one intersection.
The air was fine
as long as you didn’t breathe.

I watched my friends and neighbors
watch me from a close distance,
separated by a parking lot
and an eternity of sins
that no one wanted to talk about.

When I was 18,
I kissed a boy
and told him we were going
to get married some day.
He laughed at me.

I picked out a tux anyway.
It was white. I wanted to wear white.

She's wearing my jeans,
Whilst I wear her hands on my neck.
18, and emotionally drunk.
Is it cheesy to say I don't want this night to end?

18
What a strange age

Expected to grow up
Expected to change

But there is a problem
With what they request,
I’m not quite done growing
And I’m still quite a mess

They tell me I’m ready
That I have to move on

Won’t somebody tell me
Where my childhood’s gone?

What are these taxes?
Why must I move out?
If I haven’t the money,
Shall I sleep on the ground?

Nobody told me
How to accept
The loss of my childhood
As a normal event

It may not have been nice
And it may not have been good
And I might have been through stuff
That no child should

But I am not ready
To give it all up
To trade for my hours,
Everyday at a job

I don’t know how to fight it
I’m not sure I can

But at least I am finding
The person I am

At 18 I’m growing
And I’ll keep in my hand
That of another me,
The one of my Past

I watch her.

I watch her,
as the night drapes over her window,
as the stars tangle in her hair,

I watch her,
as the chiseled imperfection
of the moon stirs her inky musings,

I watch her ,
in the uncertain glow of the dying candle,
in the torrent of tattered thoughts,

I watch her,
watching me through the silver-smeared glass,
through the pits of colourless brown,


                                      I watch her as                           
                                   ­            she slowly traces the silence,
                                                        ­           silencing the traces of him.

So scared
With unfounded fears
Filling me
I don't want to **** myself
So win back myself
My future for my greed
Focus full force
I need all 18 holes
On this golf course

I know you think
I’m counting down the days
But I’m just trying to make
The days count.

People tell me
45 is so young,
Why would I want to believe
I’ll be gone by then?

I say
It has taken me 18 years
To get where I am.

I’m afraid
Of what will happen
After 18 more.