can see it now in a stuffy auditorium
half of those students don’t give a ****
it’s hotter than a crematorium
and everyone just wants to go out to lunch

i can see her now - the principal’s crying
she can hardly get the words out
nervous laughter and everyone’s trying
whatever it is, to figure it out

i can see me too, when she breaks the news
“i regret to inform you” but i already knew
grim curiosity, we’re all wondering who
and the world liquifies when she says it’s you

silence, something switches, day to night
last night you were found dead, abandoned
and i’m saying no god, it can’t be right
cause he would have called me beforehand

useless knowledge
reflective ceiling
guys who park their bikes here  
never feel anything
i wish that were me
and i wish that were on me
the bike shed stares back
he’s not looking at me

it shines like the city
and it breaks like the bridge
and we should be drunk
but this is a school trip
they’d find exhaust in my lungs
if they did my autopsy
i’m soaking up in puddles
wanna breathe gasoline

the heat is too sweaty
and the people don’t smile
and it’s not LA
But let’s stay for a while
and you hate LA
it’s all concrete and palm trees
so let’s go get burgers
let’s go get ice cream

glitter like winners
and it’s sticky out here
and somewhere it’s winter
but somewheres never here
this station’ all yellow
am i in a movie?
this is living, worth filming
i’m finally breathing

scream off the balcony
up 46 floors
suburbs in the sky
wanna break down the door
live like real people
leave our shoes on the floor
watching the sunrise
and still wanting more

So they say:
I am diseased
because I’m different.
I am disgusting,
for I am distinct.

I am a widow on the wall,
a cockroach in the kitchen.
I am stubbed within the sand,
gouged into the grass.
You hold me in your index,
and huff me out your mouth,
for I, the English cigarette;
am a sickness in your lungs,
and the cancer beneath your feet.

I am black,
I am bubonic,
I am a plague.

They seem to fear my spread,
yet, I am pushed, I am prodded,
I am pummeled down to bone,
for I, the English cigarette;
am extinguished by your touch,
a light, and lifeless ****,
an easy target
caught between your malice
and the cruelty of your words.

For my English III class
             Mr. P
had sprawled                        out
S
       T
    A
                  C
       K
S
       of books       in t h e front      of his
                 classroom.
He had a short lecture and introduction to blackout poetry, then
everyone shot out of their chairs to find a page they wanted

I was the last to go up, the first book I found had a beautiful picture and I decided to use it

                             Months later
the assignment was completed and in the gradebook, he said if we wanted we could keep them

Now as I lay in my room at 2:34 AM on a
  Friday I sit and think about it.
   It wasn't long ago when I created it,
       but it also had been enough time for me to leave the public school entirely to could be                    
                          homeschooled
The­ only thing I regret was not saying goodbye to him
       in person


                    And getting that poem

But you’re just a kid-
So who am I to have learned love
From somewhere other
Than home

What a sentence
That almost borders on prose
To be just a kid…

Ignorance and bliss I suppose
Rhyme schemes and sparking trees
That make up for depth and feeling

Because I’m just a kid

The bright light reflects
from my tear filled eyes
With countless vents
It is time to say goodbye
And I don’t reach out

My identity is a circus act
For those who find it amusing
I am not to overreact
Yet I am still self accusing
And I don’t reach out

I have to put up with more
Than anyone else
I have more to endure
In a world of parallels.
And I don’t reach out

I’m the human embodiment of Atlas
Holding up everything unfurled
But the sky isn’t just mine, alas
Not everyone is rivaled
And I reach out

COUGH COUGH! BLEGH!
I’ve come down with a case of “meh”,
I’ve got tremors and shakes
And “that’s due today??”
Nearly putting me into bedrest.

There’s so many things that need doing
And I truly cannot keep assuming
That I can avoid
The results of my choice—
I jumped in the ***, now I’m stewing.

Will this be my undoing?
One might have guessed
That I’ve quit and I’ve stopped
In an unending rest,
Am I still the best?
My grip, it is slipping:
Like an old, beat-up ragdoll
Whose threads won’t stop ripping.