Do you sense their means, a shot and fast,
Where words are power, opinion takes no feather light.
Where rhythm and rhyme will make anything be true,
A world of with others are waiting for you.
If your heart beats fast when you create and ran
If you want to share what wake your brain,
Come and join us now, let your voice be heard,
In the Poetry Club, where you truly awake
Write, and think, and we all create
New place for us to share, to trust.
Make your story, and you may best.
Languages do not make us alone,
we can make the beauty of it along.
You can use translate,
and it’s no, and nor too late.

I was going to the high computer literacy class
A class that I despise
A class that I dread
I go and sit but .....
It was the last time I sit for all of eternity
As I sit  out taking a breath
I don't feel my heart beat
I was sitting lifeless  in my chair
Some of the students noticed that I was not doing
Anything
The teacher was calling 911 as he noticed that I was not breathing as I just sit there limp
It feels like I was locked in my dead body, my soul that was!
I cannot enter the spirit world and as I try to enter. The realm
I am just at the borderlands
I wish I could move but I could not
Soon they realized what I already know
That I was dead and in limbo!  As they realized this they call
The medical examiner instead
Because I ain't breathing
Then I was taking to the morgue
As the drive I scream
"It's the ******* classes that caused my death
The ******* stress and boredom
The fact that I was deciding to break free!"
But what the does the driver say nothing  as I try to be heard!
I am processed and borough in for autopsy
The medical examiner said this ....
"Who do we have here today!"
She looks at my papers and said my full name
Elena Melanson
Before she could get the scalpel I tell physically make sounds
Telling her he exact cause of death
"It was that ******* computer lit class
That killed me, it borded and
Stressed me to death!"  
She finds this remarkable that I would be able to talk with
My own voice
Then for the last time my soul hits the boarder lands
And goes right to the spirit world
And that was when my body went limp for the last time
Had I found peace? 
I am from dearh's cold grip and I find that I am
In a perpetual summer with
Wild followers all over the place
It seems peaceful and I go to the light
I am at peace!"

(a piece from high school (I’ve been reorganizing))

I am simply at my worst these days.
Wild and unpredictable emotions rush on me - it's a place where the layer of control and composure are very thin.

This school year has been an endless working, always desperate, collection of days.

Each passing week seemed to unmask some flaw in me.. Like peeling a rotten onion.

Emotionally, spiritually, I’m drubbed—I droop like a hanged man.

It's not the work—I survive (piano) competitions and academic battles as if by some brand of magic..

No, it's more.
I have lost my goal. Like biblical engineers raising the tower of Babel on the plain of Sennaar, I am struck by a lack of focus. My direction, my original plans, seem shallow—I stand purposefully gelded.

It's worse because I'm somehow so much less who I want to be.

Like an asymptotic curve I constantly miss my ideal. I am hunted, internally, by my own inner voice, that ruthless, pittyless, seeker of perfection.. it lurks like the prowling wolf, stalk bent walk.. sifting my every thought, my every action for flaws.. until like the wing weary hunted pray I could almost welcome the killers warmth for sweet silence

In a mood somewhere between cowardly and courageous I finally approached my mom..

In a speech from the scaffold, I told her of my black, tight, treacherous spiral.. of my doubts about everything.

I expected the worst.. a disappointment, in less than cryptic, ciphered messages, a slow sharpening of her claws on me for endless shortcomings..

Instead, I got miracles..
as if rigid constellations had shifted.. an atmosphere of freedom earned.. and at least for that moment, the mom who used to sing me awake in the mornings as a girl.. and a delicious summer of rest.
.
.
A song for this:
Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_02.mp3

Inside me lives the regret of high school.
Was standing beside achievers worth it?
I stood proud, loud; but what did it cost me?

My crippling body—frail, pale, and exhausted.
Was this the trophy? Was I proud to show this?
I was among the great, yet I was a pretender.
A pretender that I was okay with this lifestyle—
To keep up with the pressure, but was I really?

In the end, who was I trying to impress?
Was I supposed to feel this empty?
I achieved something, yet it meant nothing.
I stood on that pedestal, but the crowd was empty.
Now, I carry on the weight of who I tried to be.

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