Innocence
So small, so pure
Tender and mature,
Yet somehow
Lacking

Innocence
A child at heart
From others, so far apart
Unaware of the placement of words
Giving an entirely separate meaning

Innocence
So small, so pure
Mind secure
Despite attempts to tamper
With the delicate camper
In a woods of magic

Innocence
A child at heart
Ready to play the part
Yet, is it true
Through this hazy view?

Innocence
So scarce in these times
Foolish with these rhymes
Interpreted and tainted
But unaware of such
Picture painted
A gentle touch
On the shoulder
Whisper of explaining
Drop of a boulder…

- Jay M
October 28th, 2019

See how the clock ticks?
Second by second; Minute by minute
Golden hands moving, moving
Never ceasing, ever changing

See her dress flow?
Lace of black, silk of red
Hugging her form; Kissing the floor

See her foot tap in anticipation?
Tap tapping, Clap clapping
Her heel scuffs the floor
Ding, scuff. Ding, scuff.

Now see her pacing
Back and forth, Forth and back

Back to the clock
Hands at a quarter, Quarter ‘til nine

Tick ticking, click clicking
Forward in time, inching towards nine

See her dainty hand rest
Upon the rail to the stairs?
Fingers tap, heels clap
As the clock ticks the time

See her raven hair catch the light?
The silver pins shine
She twirls a stray curl
The clock still  ticks the time

Five minutes left now
She sighs a slight sigh

Then the doorbells chime
As the gold clock strikes nine

An audible gasp as the door opens wide
The clock is forgotten; its tick out of mind
They head to the dance at two past nine

The tiredness that sank into his bones felt so real.

He had no reason to feel exhausted, yet he was.

He rolled out of bed, exhausted.

He went to school, exhausted.

He did everything a good scholar should, exhausted.

Nothing felt energizing.

Everything was another chore on his mental list.


The anxiety of who he was curled in his stomach.

He peered into the mirror, anxious.

He compared his body, anxious.

He thought about what he said, anxious.

He pondered his every action, anxious.

Nothing felt right.

Everything incited an internal panic.


The sadness weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He stayed up at night, feeling blue.

He stayed quiet when out with friends, feeling blue.

He ate constantly, feeling blue.

He immersed himself in his work, feeling blue.

Nothing felt exciting.

Everything was dissatisfying.

we learn through
iteration and repetition
repetition hones your craft
iteration grows your craft

there’s a loop
a loop of anger, despair, and nothing. numbness.
feeling numb is probably the best part, though feeling nothing gets lonely.
aching to feel something, anything.
the anything usually then turns into despair, and feeling so desperate makes me sick.
i’m tired of this endless cycle of agony, the static of feeling nothing, the ache of despair, the fire of rage.
i don’t know how to break out of it — how to break out of this hell.
i feel as if I’m drowning and the only thing i can do is hope i’ll float, no matter how fast i keep sinking to the bottom. staring up at the water blurred sky, stars blinking out and the moon becoming invisible as i begin to lose the breath i had been holding in.
the burning in my lungs soothe as water fills them, though the panic setting in makes my limbs thrash as i desperately heave for oxygen, getting nothing more than the cold liquid.
then it goes dark.
that part, is what i’m waiting for now. after the final panic.
the release.
i just want to be free.
why can’t i be free?

Identity plays a big role in my everyday life.
My identity allows me to be prideful.
My identity teaches me about relationships and the sincerity of people.
My identity is like a tutor. If I wasn’t the way I am, I would be very ignorant, and I still learn new things everyday.
My identity makes me feel uncomfortable with my body.
My identity urges me to do things that would be weird, and let’s me be unique from everyone else around me.
My identity sometimes feels like a chore. My identity is a series of trials and tribulations.
My identity has taught me more about myself than anyone could even attempt. My identity has put me at risk.
My identity has led me to be a victim of ****** assault.
My identity is something that is sensitive and dear to me.
My identity doesn’t owe anyone an explanation.

Piercing static noises
Disrupt the state of partridges
Their necks in holes like ostriches
At the slightest glimpse of consequences
Pertaining to their life expenses
How do they sense this?

The PSI required
To make us inspired
Roused by unspoken choirs
Using their strengthened minds
Under simple disguises
So that they surmise it
How do they sense this?

Mother’s eyes in the back of her head
They’re filled with dread
She looks ahead
To see when we have been misled
How do they sense this?

A dream is a vision wrapped in mystique
Intentions are good but the vision reaks
Perfection isn’t always what we all seek
How do they sense this?

Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?