you are the strongest person i know
you've been through hell and you still stand
some days, it's hard for you to even breathe
it's hard for you to walk or stand without being so tired
and you still have the best attitude towards life
you make jokes with everyone
and there's always a smile on your face
you're so passionate about what you do
and you have never given up
you say you still want to do things
like skydive and bungee jumping
but you can't
and i'm so sorry
for some reason, i'm your favorite
i don't know why
i'm not the best artist
i'm not the best student
but i'm your favorite
and you tell everyone that
maybe it's because
we connected last year
the year i had millions of cuts
running up and down my arms
hurting myself in school bathrooms
and trying to **** myself in the woods behind my house
and you saw right through me
and you told me you were depressed
that you know what it feels like
and you still rise
you've been through worse pain than me
and my pain is nothing compared to yours
but we connected somehow
and i want to be just like you
to be able to push through the pain
to be able to smile when it hurts deep down
to be able to have a positive attitude towards life
even though it has stabbed you in the back so many times
i've never had a teacher i felt so close to

Have you ever tried to draw a picture
without lifting the pencil from the paper?

One line, uninterrupted and looping
in on itself, swerving in arcs and switching
directions at sharp points.

The line grows at a constant rate
but the vectors change, how the wind is blowing
and the wobbling arrow of the compass.

A head hanging closely over the paper
and a hand pressing the pencil with trembling
force against the desk.

Eyes squinted, focused intently on the next
angle as the lead begins to tremble and crack.
Just a little more, just one more turn
the piece hasn't come together yet.

The timer beeps its descending count
10 to 9 and 8 to 7.
Sweat condenses on the brow
and the lead shatters
as it lets out its electronic shriek.

Now lift your head, trace the line with your finger
where it loops and why,
and when the work is done you will realize
where the line drifted away
from the hazy picture you had in your mind.

A scribble dons the paper,
the line intersecting randomly
and turning when it reached the edge,
influenced by the frame, not your whim.

She comes to class and goes
“There’s bees in my Head”
Then pulls out
Another mug
Of coffee
Which happens
To be the cause

Another comes
Face on the verge of tears
“He did it again!”
We all know who
“He” is
Then proceeds to
Accept hugs
While giving
An in depth narration

Another comes in
“I’m, just, dying”
She proceeds to get
More hugs
While another friend
Calls her “hot”
And she insists she’s not

The fourth comes in
She’s been sacrificing
Her free time
To attend this class
And her sad tired smile
Says it all
She gets hugs too

And here I am
In the middle
Suffocated
...
Am I emotionally immature?
Am I too much of a cynic?
Is it me, or is it them?
Am I just different?
Or too self conscious?
...
Why do they have so many problems?
...
Then class starts
And I turn to our model,
A plastic skeleton dubbed
-Bony Bonez

And lose myself
In the charcoal

I’m dreaming
Of a white page
To write on
A white canvas
To paint over
A white sheet
To lie on
A snow scene
That spreads
For miles
White stars
Of milky way
Will make my day
The quietness
Of whiteness
That drowns out
The festive noise
That makes me freeze
Like white ice

you don't like
those freckles
on your shoulders
but i love drawing them
on the page like
constellations
that are immoral,
that stay with me
forever
even if
you don't
know
that i
exist on
the same
planet
as you.

What is blood's belonging,
When we just cut its supply,
Ending our stream,
Ending our lives,
Lives filled with misery,
Disturbed in despair,
Life is filled with obstacles,
Though everything is fair,
As fair as her skin,
In the sunny skies
Though if you look closer,
If you look at her thighs,
Under the trousers,
As dark as her mind,
Scars dancing,
Upon the streaks of a line,
So what is blood's belonging,
If we just cut its supply,
Ask the girl,
Who drew on her thighs.

People aren’t fun, but paper is
I enjoy the feeling of writing on it
I learn to draw, day by day
People aren’t fun, but paper is
So I bring more paper by midday
I enjoy the feeling of writing on it