Many a mistake, I've made
But that need not necessarily be bad
Because, a lot I've learned
Whenever I've failed
I feel I can handle anything
And need to fear nothing
Because, I've seen the worst
Though I'm yet to see the best!

Many a mistake, I've made
To my struggles, you'll see no end
Often, do I trip and fall
In my court, never is the ball
But I'm slowly improving
My personality is developing
Yes, I haven't tasted success
But I'm certainly a work in progress!!

Many a mistake, I've made
But I know I'll come good
Only a matter of time
Please, give not a ****
About my past failures
See my improvements
Big and small
I rise after every fall!!

Many a mistake, I've made
But the world won't end
After all, life is up and down
And I'm definitely not alone
We all make mistakes
In fact, that's the best path to success
More important than learning what to do
Is learning what not to do!!

Many a mistake, I've made
But immensely, they've helped
I am battle-hardened
And will go to bed
Knowing I've done enough
To handle the rough
Soon, will the smooth come
Again, only a matter of time
I repeat, many a mistake, I've made
But ultimately, I've learned
That's all that matters
Thank you for your patience!!

the melody can be heard again.
i know the notes by heart.
i try to rip them from memory —
but i can’t.

the rhythm’s different,
but the tune’s the same.

like a possessed demon
it chases me underground,

and yet i sing.
sing along to it
the entire time.

It's only through mistakes we make
We learn where we went wrong.
It's only when we're far from home
We realize where we belong.

It's only when we close our eyes
Our dreams seem clear and bright.
It's only in our darkest hours
We truly see the light.

It's only when we lose our way
We pray to the stars above.
It's only through times of grief
We learn the true meaning of love.

It's only when all hope seems lost
And our weary journey seems so far,
When all the world's against you,
We learn how strong we really are.

All things are sent to try us.
We must strive and give our best.
I believe God is watching over us,
And he guides us in our que​st.

I’m in a Target parking lot
wearing his sweatshirt
and a sash that says
'Poet Laureate of American Mistakes'
because I won it in a landslide
against every girl
who’s ever texted
“you up?”
knowing **** well he is,
but not for her.

I didn’t cry today,
but I did stare at a peach
for ten minutes thinking
about death,
and foreplay,
and if any of this even counts as research.

I think about texting him
just to say
I’m sorry I made you a metaphor.
But the truth is
I’m not.
He was the only thing
that ever meant something
after I wrote it down.

I came here for toothpaste
and left with a bikini top
I’m too emotionally haunted to wear,
and a notebook I won’t open-
because if I do,
I’ll make art again,
and I’m trying to quit,
but I never really try that hard.
I don’t even know if I want to get better.
I just want someone to notice.

A man honks behind me
because I’m not moving.
Because I parked
but forgot to arrive.
Because I’m not really here,
I’m three texts back
and one year late.
You don’t know it’s the last time
until your hands feel stupid.

I wave like I’m sorry
but I’m not.
I’m just poetic.
Which is worse.

This parking lot’s a stage.
I’ve died here six different ways.
Once in June.
Twice in sweatpants.
The fourth time I thought it was over,
but the music kept playing.

I wear the sash like I’m in on the joke,
because it takes a hint of genius
to be this stupid,
because when I said
“I’m okay,”
no one fact-checked me,
and when I said
“I didn’t learn anything,”
they gave me
a crown.

I take the sash off
before starting the car.
Fold it like evidence.
Leave it in the front seat
like I’m done with the bit.
But I’m not.
I just need a break
from being clever.

I should’ve bought the peach.
Let it rot on the dashboard,
at least then
something would’ve gone soft
without making it my fault.

The sweatshirt still smells like
whatever I was hoping he’d stay for,
(mainly, me.)
And the notebook?
Still closed.
Which is hilarious, really.
Because you’re reading it.

(This poem is a lie.
I opened the notebook
before I even left the store.)