two lovers making love in a Ritz room
life is heaven, but for whom?
a government official returns to his family
life is heaven, but for whom?
gods watch in pleasure from far up above
heaven is life, but for whom?

houses made of thin sheets of metal
life is heaven, but for whom?
wooden beds and endless drops of sweat
life is heaven, but for whom?

words of love and tender affection
life is heaven, but only for some
fancy dinners and bottles of wine
life is heaven, but only for some

as for the rest,
I needn't say

sitting here, with
elbows resting on each knee
chin resting on cupped palms
skull resting on clenched teeth
gaze restless on the page.

sitting here, without
interest, intent, or intensity

restive yet frozen
taking classes by the dozen.

I can't see my future, with my present sight, but mother says that I will be alright.

I have been skipping online classes as of late; assignments turned cold, piled up on my plate.

I am uncertain of what the future holds, certainly apprehensive of tomorrow.

Every year, in English class, we have a poetry unit.
I rarely pay attention.
I get a low A on every vocab quiz and
I can ******* my way through essays

I like poetry, though. I love it, in fact.
I don’t like analyzing it.

Poetry isn’t made for English class.
It isn’t made for stuffy classrooms in ancient buildings full of kids who would rather be anywhere else.

Poetry is made for reading at three in the morning
When the world is crashing down
When it feels like my insides are my outsides
And nothing will ever be okay
Poetry is there for me then
Poetry is made to hold up the sky
Or at least a blanket fort in my bedroom
Poetry is made for laying me softly down to sleep
And for waking me up to the bright, beautiful daylight
And reminding me that everything will be okay

I love how you imagine us together
Oh how knifes are so pretty.

Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.

Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves

–Ron Gavalik

hungry for power
while the poor starve from hunger
the rich shall cower