You-
you have a lot on your plate
and me-
I am just pushed in next to the others
that weigh you down while you're trying to carry
a thanksgiving meal of responsibility
and at the same time not be crushed by it-
You don't like it when your food touches.
So there I am waiting at the edge of all the chaos
trying not to step over boundaries or cross the line
I am just another thing thrown onto your plate
of responsibilities.
I am a shadow.
A walking disaster.
And I try to avoid all the things
that are so ferociously trying to bring you back down-
but all I do is end up making it worse
making all your **** end up touching
so it becomes a mountain upon your shoulders
that eventually turns into a chip upon it-
you have gone concave-
you became acute when you were once so obtuse
so full of life
so 180 degrees out of everyone else's ******* box
and I closed you in.
Made you realize what you needed to make yourself small
so you could eventually fit the plate just right on your shoulders.
I try to take the weight-
try to pick it all up myself and do something to help you get through
but I just end up touching everything-
You don't like it when your food touches.
You-
you are concave in my convex world
always looking inside yourself-
always hiding away inside of the parts of yourself
I will never see because I'm too busy looking outward
to find something I can do for you.
We are trigonometry-
which is the only type of math I was ever good at in school
but I can't seem to find the right angle anymore
you are too scalene and not enough isosceles
there's no symmetry in the way you look at me-
there's too many different sides to you.
I'd like to think I've seen them all
I'd like to think I've solved what degree
every angle you feed me turns out to be-
but it seems that the angles aren't what I should be finding.
You're just a circle-
I can find your radius
but I don't have enough of you anymore
to find your circumference.
We will always be abstract.

She was always average,
you could sum her up in one word.

She was the easiest to solve,
like the parent function of an equation.

I have always struggled in all grades of school    
Teachers always thought of me as the angry fool    
    
I love to read, I love to draw and I love to write,    
But no one won when they got me to actually fight    
    
So very lonely, I dreaded going to school everyday    
There was no one to stop that in a loving way    
    
No one understood my issues that had yet to be reveled    
I had yet to learn that what was broken could be healed    
    
No one cared to know what was the matter with the freak    
That knowledge was not for the average person so weak    
    
I grew stronger mentally each day, my mentality growing hard    
I didn't know that in the future I would be given a lucky card    
    
A card called Lincoln, the home of the Phoenix    
People don't always go willing there, and few actually picks    
    
Almost in the center of a town I didn't really know    
There is a school like no other school in the USA, you'll wish you could go    
    
Once you hear how the teachers actually help you    
How the food is kinda good most days and people actually care, it's true    
    
I didn't believe it at first, no, not at all    
I didn't talk to anyone; I hid in a dark hall    
    
Then I met a boy in Physical Education, P.E. who called me Gypsy, thanks to my skirts    
He introduced me to the rest of his friends and they eased life's hurts    
    
My school saved my life; they helped me so very much    
My school may be called Lincoln but it has a mothers loving touch    
    
And when I was homeless they helped me find a place to stay,    
They made sure I was safe and secure each and every day    
    
They helped me overcome my issues with math and taught me more    
About poetry and rather than any door I could have opened I opened Lincolns Door    
    
They taught me that I shouldn't be afraid to learn and no one would hurt me    
If I got things wrong, with praise and love I flourished and it is clear to see    
    
I will always be a part of Lincoln and Lincoln a part of me, for only the lucky go to Lincoln, the place only the few picks    
That with college coming up Lincoln the home of the Phoenix  
  
That High School will always have a part of my heart

Dear Math,
I wrote this letter to let you know how I feel about you. The thing is much as you love me so much, we can never be an Item when all you do is torture my brain and break my heart.
You claim to be a linguist, yet you know none of my languages. You don't know Kiswahili neither do you know English and only speak Algebra and statistics...I loathe you for all you do is play on my mind with words like Sigma and Meu, factorial and co-factor.You claim you want to be the only one but still ask me to find your X without even telling me Y.Well, grow up and solve your own problems because I'm tired of solving them for you.Just walk out of my life forever and not temporarily like the dew. You have hurt me enough with razors of matrices, pinched me simultaneously and never asked me whether I believed in your ancient beliefs like those of Pythagoras or not. We were never meant to be. I found a new one, her name is literature and she loves me so much.I won't apologize for saying I hate you because It's unfair apologizing for saying the truth.
Yours with anger

It's not really a long time
to some people,

In perspective,
the length of
the average life,

something like sixty,
seventy years

or in some cases
something like one
hundred and two
give or take a few

some poor *******
live into the hundred
and teens

How unfortunate,
How unlucky,
what sins must you commit
to be trapped here
that long

Living every day
waiting on death
like children wait
for the swing set

It's a long time
to me.

In my perspective
it's not three years,

it's not thirty-six months,

it's not one hundred
fifty-six weeks,

one thousand sixty-
eight days,

twenty-five thousand,
six hundred
thirty-two hours,

one million,
five hundred thirty-
seven thousand,
nine hundred-
twenty minutes.

In my perspective it's,
ninety-two million,
two hundred seventy-
five thousand,
two hundred seconds

of missing your first
steps,
not knowing your favorite
food,
not reading you Goodnight
Moon,
missing your Second,
Third,
Fourth birthdays,

not hearing
one hundred
twenty-six
million

heart beats.

It's pain that scares
the gods,

that demands
absolution,

and one day
when you read this

Know that I loved you.
Know that I missed you.
Know that once we find
each other again

I hope I'm a lucky *******,
sinless and pure,
that lives to see
one hundred
and twenty,
then we can share our perspectives
on three lost years

Satan plays the violin; the same shape and tone as mine.
The devil passes time in Hell by playing fiddle,
and if I had to guess; I think that's the reason why
he knows the answer to life's riddle,
because its trilling's the only feeling filling
enough to get away with that beautiful lie.
It drowns the screams of the ****** that died;
                                                                ­          and briefly
                                                         ­                     tells us we are still alive.

I first would like to apologize for getting rather mad,
calling you a stupid *****
and saying it was a “hit and run” to the police,
also in hindsight spitting at you was not cool.
I feel bad about it now,
and it will haunt me for a while,
or at least until something else comes up.


You shattered my wings,
granted they were glass wings and
when you’re throwing yourself through the narrowest possible canyons
getting hit is almost certain still, it *****
the wind out of you, even if just for a second.


I love jumping through
canyons daring gravity to do its worst, but I was playing by the rules,
respecting nature
or at least I planned on not breezing by the sides as much.
I guess its habit now, to risk getting shattered for
the freedom of movement in a restricted space.

I swear when I hit the ground I was ready to walk away
I was intact.
Ready
to continue on my way and saying “yeah I’m fine”,
learn nothing and find smaller canyons.
but when I saw the bird you hit, my brain
sprinted for the worst.
That knocked the wind out of me.
Instantly I thought it was completely ******,
and while I still do have my wings,
you shattered part of my glass illusion.
Thank god for repair shops.

You see you own the skies your kind controls
the canyons walls, make them zig then zag that way.
Sure their are bigger gods,
but they only show up from time to time. I’m part of the skies
but my only possible responsibility is to not
hit the birds.
The rules say I need to act like you,
but the rulers let us fly our own ways.
The bigger gods understand or just don’t care.

So next time just know that the rules
are not the ones in physics textbooks, those are
often confusing and require years worth of reading,
of understanding billions of acceptions of knowing what
the hell centripetal force is, and being able to solve painful
multi variable calculus problems
the way physics actually works is what happens when
the winds take glass
and you, being a god got careless and broke the laws of physics.

I see no numbers
hers is the only figure.
She's my addition.

I hate the fact that I can come up with stories for people who never lived,
Or a poem about things that happened when I was a kid,
But I can't figure out how to remember the quadratic equation,
And nothing good comes out of my power of persuasion.

I have no idea what comes out of having a creative mind,
But not being able to do complicated math in record time.

I hate that I would rather spend hours coming up with a metaphor to describe the panic I feel,
Than learn things that are supposed to help me make enough money to pay for even one daily meal.

I spent more time trying to write this,
Than I ever would trying to understand functions and statistics.

But writing ****** poetry isn't going to help me,
When I don't even have the slightest idea what I want to be.