I have seen it coming.
I have felt me drowning,
slowly, and then all at once,
I don't like it here, you know.
It's different,
maybe I knew it was gonna be.

I talked to them.
No, it doesn't get better.
Every time I try, it gets worse.
Maybe I don't talk like them,
maybe I don't want to.
I don't like it here.

They don't get me.
Well, no one tries to.
And it's utterly fine,
I like it that way.
I'm that socially awkward damsel, who is mostly seen under the covers of her John Green-book.
They do talk to me about those notes from class
and once it's arranged,
they are nowhere to be seen around me.
But, remember?
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen me losing myself,
piece by piece, word by word.
I have been trying to reach the bright smoke of expectations that hovers around my head.
And for the hating love of reading,
I still manage to slip through the pages of that fiction novel,
at least once a day.
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen old mark sheets of the dead,
I have seen those good grades fade.
I have seen me,
dead.
I haven't risen up from the dead,
I am trying to.
But,
I don't like it here.

I'm happy to see him
Even if it's just one
Moment in a day.

But I don't know if-
He feels the same way.

Palms sweaty,
Knees weak,
Pulse beating-
Faster and faster.

All I can think of
Is you and I don't
Know what to do-
I hate being in love.

That guy has social anxiety
That guy has no friends
That guy is judged by his first impression
And it doesn't go further than that
Because that guy doesn't get a chance to portray who he is
That guy is an introvert
That guy is lonely and depressed
But to hide it he puts on so many facades for so many different people
That guy has forgotten where the facade ends and where he begins
That guy has been hiding so long he has found comfort in this lonileness
That guy looking back in the mirror is forlorn, troubled and is longing for help
            So please Help Me!

i like noticing details that no one else sees.

-l.j.t.

I am quiet in a line of on-lookers, big-thinkers, hell-raisers
I sing a song to a corner in the room
It winks and blinks along the beat as
Large shadows confidently raise their arms in triumph.

I am sitting still, a floating ocean depth silence
Watching waves crash and clatter miles overhead--
What fun they must be having out there in the world!
Where the blue is sometimes yellow or pink and
All one knows is not only the dark, deafening hush of
Blue--Where
The colors really taste like they advertise:
Savory sweet honey orange, supple plump green melon,
Ripe for the picking, these--

These are the pickers.
With their power-tool loudness, their "I can fix it!"
The red-runners, the green-makers.
Their lawns rolling out like gold ****** dresses
Reveling in their own chaste gold underskirts under a matching
Gold sun
The earth bowing her shoulders to make room

I am the crisp subtle crunch between bites
The shamed blouse of the *****
The sufficiently watered bud among a field of tall daisies
The pause in your breath
The silence of an empty house

The quiet lemon shavings left on
The quiet cutting board,
Bleeding rind by way of knife

The metaphor in a poem -- waiting in quiet verse
To rear its head to the reader

How many empty glass bottles can you shove into a bag
Before it all leaks out the bottom
I am the bottom
A soft reflection in the train-car window

I see you all.
I hear you.

I don't know quite yet if
I understand you
Rambling on in high buildings with your
***** reared high.
Whether love is just temporary obsession or
If one can make it to death without truly living.

But I do know, quite often, that there is meaning
In complete
Silence.

--
c

That person wants to make people happy
But that one is not.

How did God created a world
When he does not have at first.

How does a road end
And where did it start

That person's questions
Have no answers

As to why that person lives
Or why that person hates to live

Hates to leave
Yet wants to be alone

The surroundings and being surrounded
Is cruel in all possible ways

What is that sound?
tick tick, tick tock.
It’s really quite odd,
I don’t own a clock.

It’s ninety one past thirteen,
wait, that can’t be right.
Time for another pill,
medicinal light.

Just smile, and nod,
until your cheeks hurt.
Now laugh, pull it back,
compliment their new shirt.

It’s orange, no it’s red,
**** what is that hue?
What do you mean it’s white?
It’s ******* pastel blue.

Now throw out a joke,
and some proper context.
Good job, you failed,
like an impotent sext.

You’re talking too loud,
oh Jesus, shut up.
How much have you drank?
Really? One cup?!

Finger guns now,
and a smooth exit we go.
Ya that wasn’t awkward,
you nailed it, fo sho.