A poem's a poem and nothing else
As they stand they will never be a tree

Even by God's decree

A poem's nothing more than the mangled thoughts
Spilling out of our heads
It's not the future that I see

Nor was it meant to be

Though I do admit
at times they tend to make me cry
And sometimes on the inside
they want to make me die

And again they give me hope
Even make me want to dance
And I come close to love and God
And they give me sense of balance

The world could do
without the poems
that funnel through our pens
But what a sorry lot we would be
without the freedom that it brings

So let the words flow like water
over Niagara Falls
Give our hearts the magic words
that make our spirits sing
Let us gain the unattained
Poems , and poetry is the name

he pulls my hair
and strangles my neck
forcefully shoving his
inside mine
in every chance he has
simply cause I shout;
"**** me"

I can tell you how to write sad poems,
all my favorite songs that make me cry. . .
I can recommend movies that end in a suicide note
or books, where the character never does learn how to fly.

I would lend you the eyeliner that is most smear-resistant
for the days that you have to sneak away to the public restroom, lock yourself in a stall, and finally let the emotions out. . .
I can talk about my old car and the boys I've kissed in it
and how they took advantage without a doubt.

And yet I will always say I'm doing good when you ask
and promise there is a brighter side to life
because you do not have to be clever to make yourself a mask,
there just need be a (false) sense of contentment in your eyes.

if we both met and fell in love
by God's will
then why should we be forced
to separate ourselves—our love
*by what human said?

Stress. Stress. Stress. That's all life ever is. Kids don't plead to be older. It's a trick. You'll soon wash away into everything all at once and feel like you're drowning. You'll panic so much and worry so much that you just want to sit and cry for days and days and days. Just run away. Stay a child for as long as you can. Don't grow up. Because the process is a burden. Don't get caught in that wave and think everything will be fine, that you can handle it's force, when you end up going under it instead. To those already there, keep fighting to be above that wave. Fight for that ship that has yet to sink that will take you out of the forceful grasp. Don't give up.

is it you – too?

the scratch of skin

blood under nails,

fighting the phantoms

and scratched back in couplets

through flesh onto bone

words inside, words out


is it you, love?

who has me choking on verse

spat with toothpaste and blood

tucked into an unwatched glass

and drunk

until birdsong flows

Trying to grab words
And force them into something
Worth meaning
Worth making
Instead, getting this.
A not-worth-your-time thing
A sentence built on sentence
Without a reason behind it.

Life energy radiates within--
literally the energy of beings
exist within your veins;
hungry animals thirst within those capillaries.

The lungs that heave
are the muscular tissues of  little chickens--
tendons that tore to make you strong,
elongated strands of fat from each bite
made the skin around your lips.

Though the calcium of bones
was not used in this current cuisine--
blood was made into pudding
dessert maybe used to make hemoglobin.

We feast on flesh to create our own
same goes for the creatures that we eat
they mangle the essence of life
to satisfy their own longevity.

All must eat to survive,
remember with each bite
comes the sacrifice from the sky
it begins with the Sun,
and ends with the Earth.

I am not a sealed container that has not been purchased
I cannot be bought with paper and stacks of bills, I am not what you get out of currency
Shuffle me in between categories, I am only a human being
I am not replaceable, despite my claim for it
I am not a pleasure box, I am not toys, I am not an object
You cannot talk me out of my resistance
If my doors are locked, you cannot welcome yourself inside, forced entry is what they call it
You are compelled by urges I do not want to satisfy,
When all I want is a conversation, but filth is all that roams your mind
Your apologies are sorry's that emerge into a sea of forgotten,
And my feelings keep towering over my guard that was built for protection and fighting
But tell me this, if I said "no", then why are we still talking?

n.j.